


Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge

by mickie



Series: Sheriarty30 Challenge 2017 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Character Death, Depression, Drug Use, Fanfiction, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light BDSM, M/M, Memory Loss, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge, Smut, Temporary Amnesia, Threesome - M/M/M, Younger Jim Moriarty, Younger Sherlock, implied suicidal thoughts, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2018-12-02 16:31:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 61,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11513172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: Various drabbles and stories written for the Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge.  Stories are unrelated unless otherwise noted.This series is now complete.





	1. Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



**Dream**

Sherlock was walking through the dark forest on his way to Mummy’s house. Leaves crunched underneath his shoes and the fog was starting to roll in. He took a deep breath and then quickly avoided a large spider that seemed to jump toward him out of nowhere. Spotted wolf spider, _Pardosa amentata_. Doesn’t weave a web; unlike Moriarty. Pounces on its prey; so very like Moriarty. Why are you dead? Why did you really do it? Did you really do it?

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he focused on the path ahead of him. Fifteen minutes to Mummy’s house. He wasn’t sure why he was going but he knew he had to. It was Mycroft’s fault. Always Mycroft’s fault. Mycroft always shirked family responsibility. Crown and country were fine. Family was relegated to second. A wolf howled in the distance. Sherlock turned his head toward the sound but kept walking, perhaps a bit more briskly. The wolf was far away.

Mummy would be happy to see him; she always was. Sherlock forced himself to try to remember why he was going there as he strode through a thicker wisp of fog. His mind sought to distract him by identifying the species of trees, both alive and dead, but he forced himself to forge onward. The wolf howled again. Closer, but it was still far enough away.

Sherlock wrapped his sanguine red Belstaff around him a bit tighter. The air was colder and the answers continued to elude him. Frustration. Futility. Just like Jim’s death. Just like their relationship. Just like those surreptitious evenings between cases and stolen kisses when the cameras weren’t near them. Frustration. Just like those furtive fleeting touches, sly glances that meant more than they seemed, and whispered promises of an eternity together, eventually. Futility. The wolf howled, closer this time. Much closer. Sherlock picked up the pace once more. The wolf was getting closer.

Jim’s voice echoed softly in his mind the same way it had their last night together. He’d loved Shakespeare and known this passage by memory, usually feeding Sherlock sweets or strawberries as he recited.

_Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,_  
_Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,_  
_To the last syllable of recorded time;_  
_And all our yesterdays have lighted fools_  
_The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!_  
_Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,_  
_That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,_  
_And then is heard no more. It is a tale_  
_Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,_  
_Signifying nothing._

Nothing. That’s all Sherlock was left with when Moriarty fired that bullet, blew open his head. Sherlock fought back the tears. Jim had somehow made him care. He’d broken through Sherlock’s walls, fears, constraints and showed him that there were no ceilings for people like them. Only the ones they chose to believe in. The wolf howled again and Sherlock felt the reverberations through every part of his body. The wolf was near.

Panic welled up inside him and he broke into a run. He didn’t want to know how close the wolf was. The air was getting colder and Sherlock started seeing his breath as he exhaled. At this pace, he’d be at Mummy’s in five minutes or sooner. He wasn’t sure anymore. Focus on that. The wind gusted and heart shaped leaves swirled around him. Dead. Withered. Heart-shaped leaves. Sherlock closed his eyes for an instant to stave off the emotions. Silver birch, _Betula pendula_. He’d seen many in Cambridge. The remainder of the classification escaped him as did all other pertinent information. Dead. Withered. Heart-shaped leaves.

The wolf howled behind him and Sherlock spun. The beast was terrifying and magnificent, thundering down on him, jaws open, teeth bared. Those eyes. He knew those eyes. Sherlock gasped as the wolf, snarling, lunged forward and forcefully slammed into him, knocking him to the ground and the breath out of him. He twisted, tried to face Moriarty, no the wolf, and felt teeth sink into his shoulder. Summoning his strength, Sherlock twisted and stood at the same time. His coat tore and, as he backed away, he saw a red fragment in the wolf’s mouth. 

The wolf snarled but all Sherlock could see were the dark, terrifying, sensual eyes that he’d looked into so many times: from above when Jim had lain writhing in ecstasy beneath him; from below when he’d drowned in indescribable pleasure beneath the man; and from the side when, in companionship or in as much of a friendship as two men like them could have, they’d shared their lives. “Jim…” he whispered. 

The wolf lunged at him again but as it did, slowly became Moriarty again. His hands circled Sherlock’s throat and tightened. Sherlock fought but seemed unable to shake the grip. He heard the wolf snarling and he saw fury and betrayal shining in Moriarty’s eyes. Trembling, Sherlock knew he deserved it. He’d left Jim behind. Perhaps this was only fair. He saw the wolf’s bloody teeth closing in around his neck and terror rose within in. There was no escape. As darkness closed around him, he willed his body to relax and submit to the inevitable.

~~~

“Sherlock!” a voice jarred Sherlock’s eyes open and his mind awake. He sat up in a panic and turned to see John at the door, his hand still on the doorknob. He’d chosen John over Jim.

Sherlock looked around in shock and quickly took in that he was still in his bedroom at Baker St. It had been a dream. “Yes, John,” he said unsteadily.

“Bad dream?” his roommate queried.

“A bit.”

“Well, Mycroft is going to be here in five minutes,” John reminded him. “Should be ten but, you know, he’s always early. You should get ready. I’ve got the kettle going. Mrs. Hudson said she’d have the scones ready although she said if she puts chocolate icing on them, you and I shouldn’t have them because it means she put arsenic in them for Mycroft. Chocolate icing is the signal.”

“Ah… yes,” Sherlock stammered as one hand went to his throat. “Never eat anything with chocolate icing. Could be deadly.”

John nodded but then eyed him with concern. “Why don’t you go splash water on your face or something? You look a bit dazed.”

“Or you could lock the door,” Sherlock suggested as he stood, carefully hiding how unsteady he was from John. “I’ll be out in a minute.” John nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock sighed. He really didn’t feel like dealing with either John or Mycroft at the moment but he supposed there was no avoiding it. As he went to pull the bedsheets up, something caught his eye. He pulled the sheet aside a bit more and saw a deep red scrap of cloth. It was tattered and torn, as though by teeth, wolf teeth, and there were touches of dried blood.


	2. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim celebrate an anniversary once a year with a special date night.

**Date Night**

"Oh, look here, John! A good one. Promises to be a seven, at least!" Sherlock glanced up from his laptop. John was nowhere to be found. There was a large stuffed brown dog sitting in John's chair. Sherlock frowned. "Not funny. John!"

"In the kitchen," John answered. "I just poured the tea and getting some biscuits out."

"We were out of milk," Sherlock noted. "And biscuits."

"I went to Tesco."

"Hmmmm... when?

"A few hours ago," John said and walked over to the table with a tray. "Here you go." He handed Sherlock a mug and then set everything else in the middle of the table. Sherlock looked back and forth between his flatmate and the stuffed dog and then shook his head. "So, you found a good one?" John asked before Sherlock had time to start pouting.

"No, George texted me."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Him, yes, got a good one."

"He texted us this morning." John sat down with his mug of tea across from Sherlock. "Jane Doe, found by the railroad tracks, apparent homicide following a robbery. He sent us a bunch of pictures, decent ones actually, I thought."

"No, not that one." Sherlock sipped his tea and sighed contentedly. "That was a two, a suicide, staged to look like a crime. I took care of that four minutes and thirty-seven seconds after the text came in."

"What? How? How did you figure that out without going there? Oh, never mind.” John’s expression became resigned. “You're Sherlock Holmes, that's how."

Sherlock smirked. "I was actually impressed that the imbeciles at the yard did manage to take photos that were good enough for me to work with. Couldn't see the obvious solution in front of them, but the pictures told the whole story. Sent Molly the information to verify. I'll show you later."

"So, what's this new one about then?" John stirred a spoonful of sugar in his tea and then sipped it. He would never admit to feeling a bit bored but he was and he was pleased that Sherlock had deemed a case worthy of his attention.

"Ruslan Stepanakov, Russian businessman, worked in the aviation sector, found dead in his high security flat," Sherlock said almost gleefully. "Gunshot wound to the head. No one seen entering or leaving the apartment after he returned home."

"Sniper?" John asked. "It's your favorite consulting criminal's preferred MO."

A hint of a smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. "Good thought, but no! I immediately asked Gary about that and the building had no line of sight or vantage point for a sniper," he said. "Also, all the windows were closed as well as intact." John looked pensive. "Finish your tea. We're off!"

*~*~*

Sherlock and John soon found themselves at 2791 Hill St., Number 36. Mr. Stepanakov's body had been left where it had been found by his housekeeper in the middle of the dining room. Sherlock had been examining the body and giving John rapid fire notes. Gunshot wound to the temple. Description of the angle. Estimated time of death. Description of blood spatter. Incredible amounts of minutia. Sherlock had then meticulously searched each and every inch of the apartment. It had a contemporary design and was decorated in a bold and colorful yet minimalist style.

Nothing of interest had been discovered by the police in any of the well-appointed rooms. The man had been extremely wealthy and had lived a lavish if not prudent lifestyle. 

In the bedroom Sherlock found a matchbook and smiled. “Here we go,” he murmured.

"Is that important?" John asked.

“Not a smoker.”

“How do you know that?”

“No other obvious signs,” Sherlock explained. “No lighter, no other packs of cigarettes, no traces of ash. He didn’t smell of tobacco.”

John’s eyes widened in amazement. “That’s… pretty good.”

“Everyone forgets the sense of smell.” Sherlock opened the matchbook. "Matchbook, black and white diamond pattern on the outside, no establishment listed." He opened it and noted that there were only eight matches left. "Interesting." He showed John. "Eight left and the number nineteen written on the inside of the cover where it can't be seen at first glance." 

John looked at him expectantly. “Is it a clue? Does that tell you something about the murderer? A last desperate message from the victim to the world, maybe identifying the killer.”

Sherlock slipped the matchbook into his pocket and shook his head. "No. It's nothing, probably business related." John didn't seem convinced but Sherlock moved on.

Eventually Sherlock found a hidden wall safe in the dining room behind an impressionist style painting of Hyde Park that seemed dreadfully out of place in the contemporary apartment. It was painted by one William Beckett Dorchester. The contents of the safe were mundane documents that one expected to find in a safe and a parking ticket. It was for May fifth and the time stamp on it was 5:53 PM. 

Sherlock sighed, frowned, and surreptitiously took it. He both adored and despised Jim's obviousness.

*~*~*

Sherlock entered The Dorchester, 53 Park Lane, Mayfair, and made his way to the concierge. "I'm here to meet Mr. Ruslan Stepanakov," he stated drily.

The concierge typed something in his computer. "And you are, sir?"

Sherlock paused and all the clues flashed through his mind. "Mr. William Beckett."

"Yes, you're expected Mr. Beckett. I hear you're an artist. Would love to see some of your work sometime." The concierge smiled in an overly friendly fashion. Gay. Artist. Just broke up with his boyfriend. Lonely. Should tell Jim about this except that the criminal lifestyle probably would kill this fellow.

Sherlock smiled. "Mr. Stepanakov appreciates my... art."

"Uhhh… yes! I can see why," the young man stammered but then looked down with embarrassment. He quickly handed Sherlock a key. "Would you like a porter to show you up, sir?"

Sherlock eyed his watch. Eight fifteen. Perfect. "No, that's quite all right," Sherlock said and quickly walked away. He definitely needed to tell Jim about this gem.

*~*~*

Sherlock walked slowly. He didn’t want to be early. At eight nineteen, he knocked on the door of the Harlequin Suite. The door opened and inside, out of line of sight of the cameras, stood James Moriarty. “Right on time, Sherl.”

“I’d never be late for _this_ … dinner,” Sherlock murmured as he waltzed into the suite, kissed Jim, and looked at the decorated foyer. “Extravagant.” Jim nodded and shut the door. “Elegant and beautiful.” Sherlock leaned in and kissed Jim tenderly. Despite their decision to go separate ways, they always met every year on the anniversary of the rooftop. They took turns setting it up. This year had been Jim’s turn. Sherlock hung up his coat in the closet.

“Dinner’s served,” Jim whispered almost shyly. The previous year had been difficult for both of them. Difficult to meet; difficult to acknowledge how they felt for each other; difficult to say good-bye for one more year. “I actually went with tradition.”

“Wood?”

“Hardly,” Jim grumbled but then smirked. “I _would_ if I could.” Sherlock glared at Jim and then eyed the lavish dinner that had been set out. “Everything on that table means something.” Sherlock smiled at the potential for deducting. He guessed that these would be much more obscure and sublime. 

They sat down at the table. Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to the champagne flute that had been already been filled. There was something at the bottom. Sherlock grabbed the dessert fork and fished it out. “Interesting,” he said and the deductions were already flashing across his mind.

"C'mon then, impress Daddy," Jim murmured. “Start earlier today. Let me see you do the whole thing.”

"Ruslan Stepanokov, business man, smuggler on the side," Sherlock said.

"What kind of smuggler?"

Sherlock paused. "Could be anything but with you involved..." The answer should be obvious. He stared at the ring. "Diamond smuggler, jewelry, tried to double cross you. Simple business meeting. Poisoned then. Brought him back to his apartment to discuss things of a more sensitive nature. You'd already copied footage to replace the real time footage so no one sees you walk in and out. Gunshot wound to the head once he was already incapacitated by the poison. You got the angle just right to make it look like a sniper."

"Good, very good. What else?"

"You cleaned out his safe and the shipment."

"Of course."

"A nice tidy profit," Sherlock noted. "Except what you lost on this trinket." He held up the ring. 

"That's a bigger investment." 

"Two carat signature ideal cut diamond bezel setting, side diamonds channel setting,” Sherlock stated. “Now back to the main diamond: colorless; clarity, no visible inclusions, so flawless or internally flawless knowing you. It's value inherently disguised by its size, estimated worth probably half a million just for the gem. Set in a platinum band that looks entirely nondescript unless you truly examine it."

Jim smiled and then stared at him pointedly as though that answer should have been even more obvious. "What else?"

Sherlock looked at it then slipped it on each finger until it fit perfectly on the ring finger of his left hand. “It's a gift for me.” He tipped his head to one side to see if he could elucidate more from Jim. The Irishman stared at him blankly. “It's the fifth anniversary of the rooftop but then the gift should have been wood if you go by conventional traditions."

Jim banged his head on the table. Sherlock seemed truly puzzled. "Diamonds and platinum are not involved in any of those anniversary lists.” Sherlock mused. “I know how much you like silly traditions.” Jim banged his head on the table once more. "Oh, for god’s sake, what’s wrong?"

"You really don't get it, do you?"

"Is it some obscure Irish thing that you think I should know and this is how you're enlightening me? You did that on our third anniversary. The Borrowed Days thing with the rampaging cows was interesting."

"You're daft sometimes, Sherlock. Truly daft…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	3. Drunk Shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sherlock spend a night out drinking. Silliness and shenanigans ensue.

**Drunk Shenanigans**

“And here we are!” Sherlock announced in a rather cheerful tone as he and Jim fought their way out of the shrubs that surrounded Mycroft’s stately and high security house. He turned and pulled a twig from Jim’s hair. “It was clashing with the Westwood and ruining your ‘do,” he added airily.

Jim rolled his eyes. “If my suit gets ruined, Sherlock Holmes, there will be hell to pay.”

“I’ll get you a new one,” Sherlock retorted playfully while eying the alarm system. “You did turn the cameras off, right?”

“What kind of novice do you take me for?” Jim pouted. “And I wouldn’t trust you to buy me a decent suit. Now Mycroft, he has good tailors, so perhaps, if I needed something for a funeral or, or, or something that has to do with death, dying, killing, mur-”

“Jim, shush,” Sherlock almost yelled at his lover. “I’m trying to bring up the code.”

Jim shook his head to try and clear it. He and Sherlock had been celebrating something he couldn’t quite remember at the moment but, to make it challenging, they’d decided to spell Mycroft Sucks Satan’s Balls by going to pubs with the correct first letter in the establishment name that served the appropriately named drink or shot for the next letter. They’d started at the Marylebone with a Yoda shot. Sherlock had felt that a drink that color green could not be trusted without chemical analysis but Jim had insisted. 

The establishment had a two-for-one special that evening, so they’d continued with El Chapos because equivalents of the word “the” were deemed to not count and the cocktail was touted as criminally good in the menu. Jim approved and, once more, insisted. Then they’d progressed to the letter R. Jim had ordered a Raspberry Sex while Sherlock had selected a Royal Bitch because it seemed appropriate on too many levels. Oneill’s was their next stop. They chose that one not only for the letter but also for the distance, which allowed them a chance to sober up a bit.

They’d continued on from pub to pub in such a fashion until they were kicked out of the Lamb for arguing with each other over drink garnishes and they’d finally stumbled into Little Bat and summarily ordered the barkeep to provide a drink that started with the letter S and that they didn’t care what it was. The bartender, a lovely young lady named Melissa, about whom Jim had made a mental note that she could be useful to his enterprises, had given them something that she claimed was a Shimmer Snap Shot followed by a Satan’s Spawn and then a Squished Smurf. While it had taken Jim about five minutes to explain to Sherlock what a Smurf was, and he still was quite sure he hadn’t gotten it altogether correct, both were pleased with additional S’s. It also seemed appropriate. They cheered Mycroft being a slithery snake with one called Shot-o-Happiness and then stumbled out to find a taxi.

Sherlock knew that his brother was on some official government visit and wouldn’t be back until the following afternoon. Neither could resist the allure of Mycroft’s unguarded home especially since Sherlock guaranteed that he knew the codes to shut off the security system.

“Oh, hurry up,” Jim said and leaned to one side and stumbling a bit before bracing himself on the other side against the wall. “I’m thinking, dearest.” Something kept bothering Jim but he struggled to put it together. By the time Sherlock had managed to open the alarm system box, it came to him. “Stop! How many are in there?” he finally blurted out. 

Sherlock looked up at him. He’d been about to enter the code. “In where? This is Mycroft’s house. He’s the only one living there. Pets are too much work for the corpulent wonder.”

“No, no, no,” Jim grumbled. “In the box, silly.”

“What?”

“How many are in the box?”

“How many what? Codes? Cookies? Wires? Buttons? Jelly beans? Secret hate messages from when elementary school children stop by and he refuses to answer the door and buy overpriced gift wrap.”

“I boil those children in a cauldron,” Jim said matter-of-factly and then made a psychotic face which made Sherlock laugh. “Mycroft should give me some sort of public service award. No, no, I mean codes. How many codes are there?” Sherlock turned and stared at Jim as though he were trying to understand Jim’s question or formulate an answer. “How many codes are there to make the box sing, dance, and whistle a jaunty tune, honey?” Jim clarified in a sing song voice.

“There’s one to turn it off,” Sherlock answered slowly but then frowned with understanding of Jim’s point.

“That you know of. I bet the Iceman has one for everyone who’s allowed in so he knows…” Jim smiled. He pulled out his phone and then a jumble of wires from another pocket. “Allow me, _monsieur_? That’s French!”

Sherlock eyed Jim warily but then nodded and stepped aside. After seeing Jim fumble a bit with the wires, he decided to help. It took them several minutes of tangling, untangling, retangling, and detangling before they had Jim’s phone connected to Mycroft’s security system. “Open up for Daddy,” Jim sang out as he pressed a daisy icon on screen. His phone started playing the music that was similar to what had to be “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree” played on a Wurlitzer. Sherlock’s eyes widened and then he shook his head with dismay even though he was rather impressed and entertained. “We can have sex to that later,” Jim added. “Or in Mycroft’s bed!”

“No. We’re here to have a little fun.”

“Exactly.”

“No.”

“But that’s just so ordinary.”

“I don’t want him to have to be rushed to a hospital with an infarct.”

“I love that you can say complicated words when you’re drunk.”

“You’re just as coherent,” Sherlock grumbled. “Isn’t that thing done yet? What kind of criminal mastermind are you?”

“Good things come in small packages!” Jim said cheerfully. “Or it’s good things come to those who wait. But not to those who wait for small packages. Lucky for you, I’m not a small package.”

“You just said….”

“Shhhh! It’s almost done!” Jim waited until his screen flashed with some numbers and then the alarms were turned off. “It’s done. Everything disabled. Lookee there.” The lock on the door whirred. “And it opened the lock too!”

“I have a key,” Sherlock said drily. “We could have used my key.”

“I did it better.” 

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Could you possibly elaborate how, exactly?” Sherlock queried but then hiccupped. Jim just stared at him incredulously wide-eyed. Sherlock chuckled. “And with proper scientific notation and citation.”

Jim pointed at the door. “That way,” he said slowly as though he were trying to understand what Sherlock had asked. “I disabled the inside cameras, too.” Sherlock opened the door with a flourish but then scooped Jim up bridal style and strode into Mycroft’s house. “This is not the threshold we should be…” Jim looked up at Sherlock. “What does that even mean?”

“Neither one of us is marrying Mycroft!”

Jim tucked in under Sherlock’s chin for a moment. Both knew neither would ever admit how much they enjoyed that small gesture. “I should hope not, darling,” Jim murmured. “Iceman’s not fun at all.”

Sherlock set Jim down and then kissed him hard. Jim returned the kiss passionately. “Maybe you shouldn’t have disabled the cameras in here,” Sherlock murmured against Jim’s lips.

“Didn’t you say you didn’t want to put him in the hospital?”

“This would be worth it.”

“So, let’s fuck in his bed,” Jim suggested coyly but then swayed a little. Sherlock steadied him. “A nice, long, sloooooow, we-have-a-lifetime-ahead-of-us fuck.”

“Or until one of us gets a consulting phone call,” Sherlock teased as he slowly began undressing Jim, who slowly began directing them to Mycroft’s bedroom. Somehow, they ended up mostly naked in Mycroft’s study. “You missed,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Details,” Jim grumbled as he stepped back from Sherlock, quickly pushed up a corner of a painting so it was no longer straight and then smiled sweetly, innocently, and obviously, still rather drunk.

“He’ll have a stroke,” Sherlock said but then eyed Mycroft’s desk and switching the location of a few pens before taking off his pants and dropping them on Mycroft’s chair.

“I’d pay good money to see _that_.”

Sherlock grinned. “But, where were we?” Jim grinned back and both left a trail of socks leading to Mycroft’s bedroom before falling onto the bed and proceeding to ravish each other mindlessly for what seemed to be an eternity.

“Ahem,” a voice interrupted them just as Jim was pushing into Sherlock who was writhing beneath him. Both turned to stare at the interloper. It was Mycroft and he looked exhausted and about as disheveled as Mycroft ever looked. “I see I had reason to worry about Sherlock.”

“Helloooooo, Iceman,” Jim sang out and didn’t even bother to stop moving, although he felt Sherlock’s cock shrink in his hand. “He’s in good hands! No need to worry! Your tie is out of place a bit there though. Rough night?”

Mycroft stared at him and then at Sherlock. “Do change the sheets when you’re done,” he finally said. “I’ll go set the kettle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> This story is fiction. Please drink responsibly if and when you do.


	4. Tiny Differences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sherlock do not agree on pickles next to their sandwich.

**Tiny Differences**

Jim glared at the kitchen table.  Sherlock was showering while he, James Moriarty, criminal mastermind, was preparing lunch.  I am too disgustingly domestic. If he'd had new clients that morning, he would have had to explain to them that he'd wasted the entire morning torturing the side of the angels. That sounded better than saying making love to his one true love and letting his one true love do all sorts of wicked and debauched things to him. 

But James Moriarty had no new murders to plan, no new heists to organize, and no computer programs or viruses to develop. Although that meant that his one true love would have no new interesting cases, and they would _both_ soon be bored. Jim decided that perhaps preparing lunch wasn’t so bad since they’d need some extra energy for the afternoon.  His back, still stinging pleasurably from the lash, agreed.

Jim shuddered.  There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that Sherlock Holmes could do to him that he wouldn't enjoy.  Hell, at the rate he was going, he would have to give Sherlock a blow job _before_ lunch.  His hand moved the bathrobe aside and he stroked his cock.  Oh, the wicked, decadent things Sherlock did to him.  He'd have to come up with a truly devastating case just to make it up to his lover.  Perhaps that sheikh from Saudi Arabia who wanted his father out of the picture would be just the thing.  They hadn’t discussed terms but Jim had already seen potential for intrigue and a truly creative execution. He smirked at that pun.

He pulled his hand away from himself and sighed.  The grilled cheese sandwiches were done.  Jim eyed them speculatively and wondered if Sherlock would enjoy _special sauce_ on them.  Who knew when it came to Sherlock and eating. With a great deal of effort, he tightened the robe and then picked up the spatula.  The special sauce would have to wait.  He didn't want to burn lunch. He set the sandwiches on plates and then added several slices of pickles. Jim loved pickles. Sherlock didn’t. Chef’s privileges. All sandwiches needed to be served with pickles.  It was a ridiculous tradition that couldn't be ignored.  Like having sex whenever and wherever possible.

*~*~*

Sherlock had emerged from the shower, sauntered in, rather smug, and asked Jim's wine preference.  Jim selected a white Reisling since it paired well with grilled cheese. He’d then vanished to examine the wine rack.

As he set the plates on the table, Jim noted that one plate no longer had pickles.  The other plate had a double portion. Sneaky bastard! He glared murderously at the plate and immediately plotted a way to get Russian arms past Britain and into Sudanese hands.  Surreptitiously, he retrieved the jar of pickle spears and added one to both plates. If Sherlock didn’t want slices, they would make do with spears.

Once both plates were on the table he went to retrieve the fruit salad that he’d made earlier but kept an eye on the table as best as he could. They both sat down and Sherlock opened the wine. Jim soon noted that his plate was devoid of vinegary goodness and fumed. Curse him. 

“Sherlock,” Jim grumbled. “All sandwiches must be served with a pickle.”

“I don’t like pickles.”

“Pickles are good for you.”

“I don’t like pickles.”

“They have lots of things that your body needs.”

“I don’t like pickles.”

“Pickles contain essential nutrients that are important for healthy digestion, food metabolism and energy production.”

“I don’t like pickles.”

“You’ll digest your meal better and have _more_ energy to keep up with me this afternoon.”

“I don’t like pickles. And I can keep up with you anyways.”

“Pickles have vitamins like A, B-complex, C and E.” 

“Yes, yes, retinols, carotenoids, ascorbic acid, tocopherols and tocotrienols and all the B’s. Would you like me to list them?”

“Only if it involves sex. Or murder.” Jim wrapped his lips around the pickle spear and made quite the lascivious show of pulling it into his mouth. 

“And minerals such as calcium, magnesium, potassium, phosphorus and sodium. But I still don’t like them. You know, _giardiniera_ is close. I like _that_.”

“Yuck, no. Your sandwich needs to be served with a pickle. Tradition.”

“I don’t like pickles.”

“Whatever. Okay. Fine. Just, well, don’t eat it,” Jim grumbled. “Or be a good lover and feed it to me.”

Sherlock smiled wickedly. “Hmmmm... since you put it that way…” he mused while swapping their plates. “With pleasure or maybe, pain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	5. Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Sherlock is upset that no one believes his theory on Carl Powers and runs away for a bit. He makes a new friend but things don't turn out as expected.

**Holidays**

Lughnasadh  
Sherlock sat underneath a tree and sniffled. It was dusk and he really should be at home. Mummy was probably worrying while getting supper ready and Mycroft would be reading some Greek out loud or pontificating over something that Sherlock really didn’t care all that much about. No, Sherlock didn’t want to go home. No, not in the slightest. The woods were scary but it was better than going home and having everyone belittle him for not being as good, as smart, as focused, as dedicated as Mycroft. It was better than having everyone make fun of him for his thoughts, ideas, and supposedly fantastical imagination. 

Thinking about that afternoon made Sherlock angrier and tears started trickling out of his eyes. He rose and plodded forward, in the direction he thought was away from home, and then he broke into a run. The last straw had been yet another discussion on the Carl Powers death. Murder. Sherlock knew it was a murder. He’d examined every piece of information available and it was clearly murder. He ran faster. No one believed him. It had to have been murder. All the facts were there. No one was looking at the case the right way!

Suddenly Sherlock felt something catch his foot and he fell forward. He landed hard on his hands and felt one knee scrape the ground. Curling up on the ground, he started sobbing. He hoped no one would find him and the ground would swallow him up. He was tired of being put down or ignored by his family and bored by everything and everyone else around him. He sobbed harder. Eventually he made his way to a larger tree that should have been very scary in the dark but Sherlock didn’t care. He curled up as best he could against it and eventually his sobs diminished to sniffles and he closed his eyes.

“Hello.” A musical voice with a heavy Irish accent startled Sherlock and his eyes flew open. It was a bit darker but he could still clearly see a boy his own age, sitting next to him, thin, dark hair, sweet angelic face, and dark eyes that scintillated with intelligence and something indescribable. He was wearing what could only be ragged play clothes and had a bit of dirt here and there on him. 

Sherlock stared at him as deductions failed him and that was shocking as well as how the boy had managed to sit next to him without his noticing anything. “I’m Jim,” the boy said, completely nonplussed that Sherlock was staring intently. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock,” he mumbled.

“That’s not what your family calls you, is it?” Jim said and Sherlock’s eyes widened. “They call you something else and you don’t like it. You’re upset with them.”

“I am,” Sherlock replied. He wasn’t sure if he should be afraid of Jim or if he was somehow attracted to a mind that was probably sharper than Mycroft’s. “But not for that, not today.”

“What’s upset you today?” Jim picked up a fallen leaf and started chewing on the stem.

“That’s unsanitary.” Sherlock stared at Jim even harder and then related the entire Carl Powers argument he’d had with Mycroft. Much to his utter shock and disbelief, Jim not only _agreed_ with him but sometimes predicted corroborating facts. Sherlock was smiling happily by the time he reached the end of his tale. “It definitely had to be murder!”

“Of course it was,” Jim agreed. “Only an idiot would think otherwise.”

“Why don’t they believe me?”

“They’re idiots!” Jim smirked. “They’re ordinary. The can’t see beyond the tips of their noses.”

Sherlock nodded. “I just don’t know how exactly. They wouldn’t let me get his complete medical history, just what was in the police record.”

“Maybe he had some disease or some condition,” Jim suggested. “And the murderer contaminated his medicine.”

“And it incapacitated him while he was swimming so he’d drown!”

“Or it killed him while he was swimming and it would look like he’d drowned!”

Sherlock smiled genuinely. He felt like he’d found a kindred spirit. Someone who could see and interpret instead of stare blindly at things. Someone truly capable of thinking at his level, a perfect playmate, maybe… a friend. “Oh, yes! What do you think could be used?” He mentioned a few possibilities that he thought could work well in that scenario.

Jim smiled coyly and Sherlock suddenly found that insanely attractive on more than just the intellectual level. “You know, I think botulinum toxin in something like his eczema medication would do the trick nicely.”

“That’s brilliant!” Sherlock said as he imagined the entire scene playing out and his mind filled in details that had previously been missing since he’d only had the police reports.

“Isn’t it?” Jim said and smiled. Sherlock guessed his new companion probably had similar issues with ordinary people as he did. “Say,” Jim continued. “You wanna come over? It’s Lughnasadh. My family is celebrating and it’s fun even if it is _family_.”

“What’s Lughnasadh?” Sherlock frowned. He felt like this was something that he should know and even if it wasn’t, he didn’t want to seem ignorant in front of his new friend.

“It’s an old Irish holiday,” Jim explained. “We have a big bonfire and dance and there’s all sorts of food and fun.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he nodded enthusiastically. It sounded fun, something his very proper English family would never do, but also because he wouldn’t be going alone and he was starting to feel hungry. Maybe afterwards, Jim’s family could help him get home. Sherlock didn’t want to admit that he was completely lost, but he was. 

“Let’s go!” Jim said as he jumped to his feet and held his hand out to Sherlock, who took it. Jim pulled Sherlock along and soon they were jogging through the forest. It got darker and darker but Jim’s grip was strong. Sherlock wondered where they were going but he wasn’t afraid, holding Jim’s hand. They seemed to go on for an eternity but just as soon as Sherlock felt like he was getting tired, he saw a fire ahead in the distance.

“Is that it?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes!” Jim replied and he sounded excited. “Let’s run!” Both boys laughed and took off toward the fire. Jim kept pace with Sherlock and soon they were in a throng of people dancing around the fire. Sherlock laughed again and he and Jim danced as wildly as the others. Sherlock noted that a lot of them wore masks, some intricate, some hideously frightening, some beautiful beyond imagining and everything in between. They were perfectly costumed and almost seemed real. Sherlock wished that he had a mask but he kept dancing with Jim. Soon he forgot all his cares, all worries, everything that suffocated him. He felt free in a world where his imagination could run unfettered.

Sherlock lost all track of time. He just danced, wildly, in a way that his family would never approve. He imagined that all of Jim’s family were creatures of fantasy just like their masks and that soon he would be one too and never leave and never be bored again. Eventually though, he noticed that he was hungry and pulled Jim next to him. “Is there any food?” he asked.

Jim smiled and nodded. “This way.” He pulled Sherlock away from the fire and the dancers. In a glade just beyond the fire, there were a few torches set up to light a table that had a lot of interesting dishes on it. It wasn’t proper English food. Sherlock guessed it was probably some sort of obscure Irish and since Jim had mentioned that this was an olden festival, he supposed it was old fashioned as well. 

“Help yourself!” Jim said and picked up a piece of meat. “Nothing silly needed; you can use your fingers! We all do.” Sherlock felt that he should probably worry about it being unsanitary but decided that he didn’t really care. He politely sampled everything but didn’t feel overly sated. He wanted to ask Jim what everything was so he could ask Mummy to make it but he kept getting distracted by the next item to sample. Finally, they both sat underneath a tree and Sherlock’s focus seemed to sharpen.

“That was wonderful!” Sherlock said. “Everything was delicious but I don’t feel stuffed!”

Jim laughed but then his expression turned serious. “That’s because it’s not real,” he stated matter-of-factly. Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. “I can’t give you any real food.”

“Why not?”

“Reasons,” Jim answered flatly. “They’re important but I can’t tell you.”

“I don’t believe you.” Sherlock frowned. He couldn’t believe what Jim was saying and couldn’t understand why he even would. “Why would you say that? That’s nonsense!”

“It’s not nonsense!”

“Aren’t you my friend?” Sherlock felt like the entire world was shattering underneath him and nothing was making sense. “Why are you making things up? I thought we were friends.”

Jim looked like he wanted to cry. “Don’t be mean,” he mumbled.

“You’re being mean! I don’t understand! I’m having an amazing time. Your family is fun and not boring, common, mindless, like everyone else out there. This isn’t all in my head! How can say it’s not real?”

“It’s real, Sherlock, but I can’t, please,” Jim whispered.

“No! Stop it!” Sherlock raised his voice and glared at Jim who almost seemed scared. “Don’t be boring!”

Jim pursed his lips and looked away before pulling out an apple from one of the leg pockets of his pants. He retrieved a pretty pocket knife from another pocket and cut Sherlock a slice. Sherlock watched him and vaguely wondered if he shouldn’t have gotten so angry. “I’m sorry,” he said as Jim handed him a slice. “I’m not good-” He tried to find the right words. “I’m not used to people being-” He shook his head. “Let’s share this one?” He took a bite and it was the most intensely flavored, sweet, slightly tart, crisp apple that he’d ever tasted. It took a phenomenal effort for him to bring the other piece to Jim’s lips.

“Okay,” Jim said and smiled as he took the piece with his teeth. “You know that means we’re bonded?”

“Like blood brothers?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Your family is weird but I like it,” Sherlock said and was again intensely happy that he’d met Jim and his crazy family.

“Good, because you can’t leave,” Jim said. “Let’s go back and dance some more. We usually dance until sun up and then sleep for days.”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean I can’t leave? I do need to go home soon actually. Mummy will fret.”

“You can’t leave,” Jim repeated. “You can stay here with Mam and Da and everyone else. They liked you otherwise they wouldn’t have let you dance all that time.”

“I need to go home.” Sherlock suddenly felt like he was starting to panic. He liked Jim and wanted to stay friends but never returning home was frightening.

“You’re in the feywild, Sherlock,” Jim continued gently. “We’re all fey, faeries. You ate real food here. You danced during Lughnasadh. You can’t leave.”

Sherlock shook his head. “That’s crazy! That’s like the Persephone story that Mycroft read in Greek and expected me to translate. She ate pomegranates. I didn’t but this is nonsense and it’s scaring me, Jim. Please take me home.”

“I can’t.” Jim shook his head. “We’re bonded and it happened during a holiday. We have to stay together always and it’s okay because you’re fantastic and we’ll have amazing adventures and play great games here and in the physical world. You’ll love it. You won’t be bored. The family can be annoying sometimes but we can escape any time we want.”

“I want to go home.” Sherlock lowered his eyes and yet again started crying. Everything Jim said rang true in every cell of his body and he was frightened. Jim was silent and caressed his arm. Eventually he offered him another piece of apple but Sherlock just shook his head.

“I’ll be right back,” Jim said after a long while. He rose and Sherlock watched, astounded, as Jim walked into the tree. He turned and inspected the tree. It appeared normal but it seemed to giggle when he touched certain spots. Its presence was reassuring and soon he felt a bit better. He somehow wasn’t surprised when Jim walked out of the tree and sat down next to him again.

“We can go back, if you really want to,” Jim stated quietly. “I explained the whole story to my family and they understand even though they’re sad and they’ll miss us. You won’t remember most of this, maybe a few flickers here and there, but mostly nothing.”

“I don’t want to forget!”

“You have to.”

“But you’re my friend,” Sherlock argued. “I don’t have any real friends.”

“I have to come across with you because we’re bonded,” Jim explained. “And I won’t be able to return to my family until you’re ready to come back with me. But I’ll always be your friend. You can’t remember any of this and if we’re too close for too long, it’ll start to come back, but I’ll be there when you need me. I’ll be there when you need a game, a companion, someone to keep you sane. The only price for this is that when we're ready and my family calls us, we both go.” Sherlock nodded even though none of it made sense. He took Jim’s hand when the other boy extended it and his eyes closed. Darkness closed in and Sherlock felt himself falling.

*~*~*

“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice jarred him awake. Sherlock groaned. He felt groggy and disoriented and like he’d been asleep for a week. “Really, falling asleep all the way at the edge of the property and Mummy’s all worried. Father was ready to call the police and my dinner is getting cold while I’m out looking for _you_.” He sighed dramatically and crossed his arms.

“Well, then you should have eaten first,” Sherlock spat back. “I was having a grand time.” 

Somehow, despite feeling dazed and not remembering how he’d ended up there, he was certain that he’d been having a fantastic time and he didn’t feel as alone as before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	6. Smut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rooftop scene goes a bit awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: explicit content  
> As always, thanks for reading.

**Smut**

 

I’m waiting... -JM

Sherlock took his feet off the bench, stood up, and walked across the lab buttoning his jacket. He picked up his coat, opened the door and headed for the rooftop. Sherlock was waiting too. This encounter would put an end to his old life and become the start of a new, better one. Once he was out of sight of people and all the cameras, he quickly pulled out his phone and typed out a reply.

Coming. -SH

You will be! -JM

Shaking his head, Sherlock couldn’t resist a smirk and walked a little faster. Soon he was pushing the door to the roof open. Jim was sitting on the edge and looking incredibly sexy in blue. Sherlock supposed that being a bit of a clothes horse meant that Jim always looked good. He didn’t mind one bit. He also didn’t mind getting Jim out of those expensive clothes and creatively silencing his protests. Jim was such a delight in so many ways. Sherlock put on his game face as he stepped out into view.

Jim looked up at him and although he seemed serious, Sherlock could see the sparkle and mischief in his eyes. No one but Sherlock would notice that. Staying Alive was playing on Jim’s phone. Sherlock was sure that the microphones that Mycroft had hidden in several spots near that particular edge of the roof would pick up the music and every spoken word. 

They began their routine of clever lines that had been practiced over and over during sultry nights spent at one of Jim’s many safehouses. Their pace and cadences were synchronised just like the nights of sannakji and champagne, of berber tagine and bondage, of blood, caramel, chocolate, and whispered promises of a mystical forever.

Suddenly Jim changed direction and wandered back toward the door to the hospital. Sherlock’s expression morphed to annoyance but he followed. Changeable. Once in the shadows, Jim pulled out his cell and texted him. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

I disabled all the cameras! -JM

We can talk. There are no microphones here. –SH  
Sherlock frowned at him. Jim rolled his eyes and looked at Sherlock as though he were daft. Sherlock did so love punishing him for those looks. 

And you truly believe that Big Brother really told you about all of them? That he wouldn’t try and outsmart you?!?! –JM

He glared at Sherlock.  
You disappoint me, love! –JM

That was almost one of their prepared lines and Jim couldn’t resist a smirk. Sherlock looked around. Jim had selected a spot where the breeze created a bit of a wind tunnel effect so, if Mycroft had actually placed a microphone there, all he’d get was noise if they were even remotely quiet. Jim was probably being overly cautious. Sherlock eyed him for a minute and then kissed him hard. Jim gasped but then melted into the kiss.

Sherlock firmly pushed Jim against the wall and then broke the kiss. Smiling confidently, he glided his hand upward, caressed Jim's neck, and then ran his fingers through the dark brown hair. Jim closed his eyes and trembled underneath Sherlock’s hand while Sherlock continued his exploration. 

“Savor this,” Sherlock whispered but the command and control were still in his voice. He was sure none of Mycroft’s microphones could pick it up over the wind on the rooftop. “Luxuriate in it and show me how it feels. Right now, I want everything from you. I want to see your pleasure; how much you want me; how much you need me.”

“Yes, sir,” Jim replied just as softly but the sound reverberated like thunder through Sherlock’s body. He wanted to own Jim in every sense of the word because to capture something as changeable and fleeting as Jim was an incredible challenge with the ultimate reward.

Sherlock pulled Jim's shirt out and then dragged his fingertips around the other man’s waist. He chuckled when he felt Jim shudder. “I like it when you react to my touch. There's nothing that turns me on more than watching you submit.” Jim moaned. Sherlock kissed his lips tenderly yet still possessively. “It’s been too long, love.”

“Just a few days,” Jim countered breathlessly and squirmed underneath the assault of Sherlock’s hands. 

Sherlock leaned forward, pressed his lips against Jim's, and growled. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since you left the other day, since I walked through that door and saw you. I don't like having to wait for such a simple pleasure.” He gently chewed on Jim's lower lip and had to suppress a chuckle when Jim's lips parted. Sherlock kissed him as though he were trying to express every emotion that he’d been previously unable to articulate.

He held Jim in his strong arms and pressed him against the wall. Sherlock’s hands caressed his back, his chest, and his arms. They touched almost every part of Jim’s upper body and he felt the warmth blossoming underneath his fingertips.

Sherlock finally broke the kiss but moved to nuzzle Jim's neck. He nipped Jim's earlobe and then licked the rim. “Who owns you?” he murmured as one hand dropped to the other man's waist and started to unbutton Jim’s slacks.

“You do, Sherl,” Jim replied and shuddered once more but then whimpered when Sherlock's hand slid inside his trousers and pants. He moaned when Sherlock's strong fingers wrapped around his shaft. “Please,” he gasped. Desire filled Sherlock at hearing that word but he forced himself to not lose his head. He chuckled while his hand slid up and down Jim's cock a few times then glided over the fat head and spread pre-come over it. There was nothing like the feel of Jim hardening under his touch. Sherlock licked the strong line of Jim's neck, paused at the spot where the other man's pulse beat close to the surface, and then started suckling on it. 

He continued to suck his chosen spot hard and then pulled away to observe his handiwork. Jim bruised so beautifully. Biting down on Jim's shoulder, he slipped one hand to his own trousers to unbutton and unzip them. Jim whimpered so he quickly returned his hand to Jim’s cock and stroked it harder. “Need something, love?” he asked coolly although he knew exactly what Jim needed and wanted and he wanted it just as much.

“You,” Jim responded and then his body arched. “You're... you're...” He sighed then seemed to remember himself. “You! Now!”

Sherlock chuckled and stroked Jim's cock hard once before stepping back. “On your knees,” he ordered briskly. Jim groaned in dismay but complied, making sure they were both still out of camera view. Sherlock ran his fingers through the dark brown hair and then pulled his cock out. “Lube this up, before it goes up your arse. I recommend you do a good job because I’ve had to deal with too much nonsense today already, not your fault really, but you’re just what I need.”

Smiling up at him in the way that he loved, Jim opened his mouth and took in just the head. He sucked on it and rolled his tongue around the tip before sliding it up and down the slit. Sherlock growled. Slowly, Jim slid his lips downward and took in another inch before returning to suck on just the head. He alternated between moving down the thick shaft and rolling just the head around in his mouth. It was enough to drive Sherlock insane with need. Finally, he looked up again, somehow managed to smirk even with his mouth full, and then took Sherlock’s entire length down his throat. Sherlock groaned and started thrusting into Jim’s mouth.

When he felt like he was about to come, Sherlock pulled his cock out and grabbed Jim’s shoulders. “Good enough,” he stated more calmly than he felt and pulled Jim up. 

Jim smiled seductively but Sherlock didn't give him time to do anything else before spinning him around and pushing him against the wall. Jim groaned and arched his back just enough to drive most thoughts from Sherlock’s mind. He quickly pulled Jim’s pants down a bit brusquely and grabbed his arse. His fingers dug into the firm flesh and he started kneading both cheeks. 

Sherlock smiled like a predator. “Your arse is perfect,” he purred as he pushed his cock up and down Jim's crack once before lining up the tip with Jim's entrance. “It’s a crime how perfect it is.” Jim whimpered but then sighed when Sherlock forced his cock into him all at once. The smaller man must have prepared himself before coming to the rooftop. Sherlock was pleased. Jim's body felt like a sweet vice around Sherlock’s cock. He savored the sensations as he flexed his hips and started moving. He pulled Jim’s shoulders back so he could penetrate more deeply.

Sherlock shuddered from the combination of pleasure and the sheer debauchery of what they were doing just barely out of sight of both Jim and Mycroft’s snipers. He adjusted his hips to penetrate deeper without breaking the pounding rhythm and Jim moaned. “Fuck, Sherlock,” Jim finally whispered and turned his face to one side so he could partially see Sherlock. “Harder, fuck me harder. I…”

“Of course,” Sherlock almost growled while continuing to drive into Jim. Harder. Faster. He shifted his weight slightly so that the angle of his penetration changed just enough to graze Jim's prostate. Jim whimpered. “Is that better, baby?” Sherlock murmured and thrust in hard.

Jim reached back over his head for Sherlock’s head, shoulders or whatever he could grasp. “More!” he cried out, finally able to vocalize his desire. “More. More, more! Dammit, harder, Sherlock!” Sherlock chuckled but shifted into Jim’s arms. The silky-smooth feeling of Jim’s body around him spurred him on. Knowing that neither of them would last long, he picked up the pace and drove into Jim mercilessly.

Finally, Jim let go. His body tightened around Sherlock, and it was sheer bliss. Sherlock’s mind dissolved into unthinking ecstasy, and slammed into Jim once more before coming. Contentment, satiation, and lassitude slowly replaced the maddening whir of his constant thoughts. Sherlock sighed, embraced Jim, and they fell against the wall. “Jim…” he murmured contentedly.


	7. Afterglow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim deal with Mycroft, Jim's post-coital lassitude, and execute their daring escape.  
> This story happens immediately after Chapter 6: Smut.

**Afterglow**

Sherlock sighed and stayed pressed against Jim for several minutes. He was quite sure Jim started purring a bit here and there. There really was nothing quite like a post-coital James Moriarty. “We need to get moving, Jim,” Sherlock murmured while carefully pulling out of his lover. “And I need you to check if there were any microphones. You got a bit loud there.”

“Mmm-hmmm… your fault. Oh, I told Sebastian that after you and I started talking, he should unleash a few viruses into MI6. It’ll leave big brother and maybe a few more people electronically blind and deaf. Might do some other stuff but you don’t need to worry about _that_. It’ll be sheer chaos.”

“And how would Sebastian hear us. He’s two floors away?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he deduced what had happened.

“I have a microphone.”

Sherlock stared at Jim. “So, he heard us?”

“Everything,” Jim said and smiled sweetly before curling into Sherlock even more.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“No, you _love_ me,” Jim purred.

Sherlock shook his head. Jim creating chaos for Mycroft was fine but Mycroft was dogged in his pursuit of Sherlock’s supposed safety. He wouldn’t be easily distracted. “Seriously. Mycroft will pull the trigger and send his guards here soon especially if he loses track of video and audio,” he insisted and gently shook Jim.

“Mnnnnuh…”

Sherlock sighed as he tucked himself back in and then started reassembling Jim. This was just like the time in Geneva when he’d distracted Jim from a diamond heist but Jim hadn’t told him about the Russian and Korean agents that were also involved and they barely managed to escape an explosive disaster. “Stop it!” Jim grumbled quietly. “I’m comfortable. Just snuggle a minute longer.”

“We can do that when we get to Seoul,” Sherlock muttered just as quietly. “C’mon, we really do need to get moving.”

“Oh, fine.” Jim turned, reassessed the location of the cameras and confirmed that they were all dysfunctional, then pulled out his gun and fired a shot.

“What are you doing?!” Sherlock growled.

Jim smirked. “Moving.”

“I wasn’t ready! We’re not ready! I haven’t given Mycroft and Molly the code.”

“Fuck Mycroft. Fuck the codes.” Jim glared at him but then put on an absolutely adorable face that melted all of Sherlock’s anger. “You already fucked me and that worked out rather well.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock conceded and pulled out his cell while Jim left the gun on the ground where he knew Sebastian would find it.

Orion. –SH

This was not Mycroft’s preferred scenario but the one upon which Sherlock and Jim had planned their entire escape. Once the text was sent, Sherlock looked up and saw Jim leaning against the wall, beaming with a dreamy expression. “Jim, come back.” His lover’s eyes opened and Sherlock quickly and methodically thought of things to do to snap Jim out of his afterglow. “I’ll make it up to you when we get there. It’ll involve Dragon’s Beard candy.”

“You will anyways,” Jim mumbled but then took a deep breath. “Mmmm… I foresee a bit of a problem.”

Suddenly the nuclear bunker warning tone rang out from Sherlock’s phone and his eyes widened. “How did you do that?” he grumbled and then answered. “Yes, Mycroft?” Jim’s eyes sparkled mischievously and he pulled out his phone to text Sebastian. Sherlock made a note that perhaps mention of Mycroft was the best method of snapping Jim back into reality when needed regardless of the cause.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked. He sounded tense and his voice was terse.

“Dealing with Moriarty's corpse and heading out,” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t have a lot of time. Moriarty’s snipers, you know.”

“We took care of those, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice dripped with condescension. “Although it looks like Moriarty somehow disabled the cameras, microphones and a bunch of other things effectively after that gunshot. Programmed, I assume. We’re assessing.”

“No, you didn’t take care of everything, all the snipers, and you probably won’t be able to,” Sherlock winked at Jim who was still texting. “One, he had three sets of snipers on each person and probably more, so you’d best be careful. That’s why I had to go with _Orion_. Second, he’s got a virus in your system that is set to go off soon. Deal with it or it’ll attack the MI6 ops programs.” Mycroft hissed while Jim fought back a chuckle. “I know what I need to do.”

“Fine. We’ll dig that virus out shortly and deal with the additional snipers. What was all that noise beforehand?” Mycroft asked. “We couldn’t get much and what little we did was horribly garbled. It didn’t, however, sound like the mental chess match you two normally have on the path towards your mutual destruction.”

Sherlock sighed. Mycroft was entirely too astute. He hoped they’d be able to keep Mycroft ignorant for at least long enough to get out of the country where they could easily hide in Jim’s vast network. “Moriarty was playing games, Mycroft,” he growled into the phone. “It was a nasty, ever-changing game. I don’t know what you heard but the insanity of it gave me a headache. If you can decipher it, congratulations. You can explain it to me later. I have to go. Rendez-vous tomorrow.”

“Be careful,” Mycroft said and then hung up.

“That was brilliant, Sherl,” Jim said and hugged Sherlock tightly.

Sherlock’s eyes widened when Jim didn’t let go. “Did you contact Seb and Molly?”

“Mmm-hmmm, they’re ready to roll.” Jim snuggled into Sherlock even more. “That _was_ really brilliant, love. And I do have another virus that’s ready to be unleashed. I’ll activate it in a few just to buy us even more time.”

“Good, how did you know Mycroft was calling?”

“I didn’t.”

“You foresaw a problem.” Sherlock tried to gently pry Jim’s arms off of him.

“Well, yes, Mycroft certainly is the biggest definition of a _problem_ ,” Jim said and buried his face into Sherlock’s coat before mumbling a bit more.

“What was that?” Sherlock slowly maneuvered him towards the other wall. “And, yes, they should have Mycroft’s picture next to the word problem in the dictionary.”

Jim chuckled and pulled away slightly. “I said that the problem that I was referring to was my current lack of desire and perhaps inability to go down the side fire escape.” Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaced. “You know how I get when we fuck.” An explosion was heard in the distance.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock growled. “Sebastian’s not slacking.”

“Nope,” Jim said and smiled cheerfully. “He’s good that way. Even after sex.” 

Sherlock glared at him but knew that they _really_ had to get off the rooftop. Jim’s distraction would only occupy people for a short time. “Don’t squeal.” He quickly grabbed Jim, flung him over his shoulder and marched quickly towards the fire escape. 

Jim didn’t squeal but he did huff when he hit Sherlock’s back. “Put me down,” he hissed. “If anyone sees me like this, I’ll-”

“If you did your job properly,” Sherlock said breezily. “Then no one will see us. Otherwise no one to blame but yourself.” He swung his leg over the side of the wall and, even holding Jim, easily stepped onto the fire escape. “Try not to wiggle.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“No, you won’t!” Sherlock retorted perfectly mimicking Jim at the pool.

“I hate you!”

“No, you don’t!” Sherlock used the same tone. He quickly descended two flights while Jim kept muttering various threats at him. 

The window opened from the inside to reveal a very perplexed-looking Sebastian Moran. “The. Fuck.”

“Shut up, Sebastian, and take him,” Sherlock ordered while turning so that Jim could be handed to the larger man. “Is everything ready?”

“I don’t know what it is with you geniuses, always telling me to shut up,” Sebastian grumbled while helping Jim into the room and to his feet. “But yes. Molly’s waiting to fling you out the window and I’ve got dead Jim here.” Jim kissed him sweetly on the cheek. “Ah, I see what happened,” Sebastian continued. “You couldn’t keep your hands off each other. Now get moving. We’ll have the bodies out there in no time.”

Sherlock nodded and took Jim’s hands. “Let’s go. Seoul awaits.”

“The rests of our lives await.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Special thanks to fabricdragon for keeping track of cameras, microphones, and viruses much better than I did.


	8. Unsent/Unread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Reichenbach and Magnussen, Sherlock wonders 'what if...'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: sadness, depression, drug use, hints of suicidal thoughts
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**Unsent/Unread**

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a few minutes.  He'd been melancholy all day.  It was the twenty-fifth anniversary of Carl Power's death.  The day his life had intersected irrevocably with Jim Moriarty's.  Once more, for perhaps the millionth time, the endless possibilities of what they could have had flashed across his mind and then the inevitable sadness and utter desolation set in.  A whole slew of what ifs:

What if he'd told Jim how he actually felt?  
What if he'd admitted his desire and his need for someone as brilliant as himself?  
What if he'd ignored Mycroft and admitted that he cared.  Cared for people. Cared for Jim.  
What if he'd chosen Jim over John?  
What if he'd chosen freedom over the restraint of morality?  
What if he'd embraced someone who embraced life and made no excuses?  
What if he'd allowed himself a chance to truly exist? To breathe?  To grab life by the horns and savor every brilliant moment without fear?

He wouldn’t be bored. He wouldn’t be an empty shell going through the motions, held high in the supposed esteem of society, always searching for something he couldn’t find, something that he’d lost. He wouldn’t be lifeless.

Sherlock opened his eyes and picked up his phone.  He then put the phone down and picked up a needle.  A nice strong hit would give him the answers to all his questions for just a few minutes.  Or, perhaps, the questions wouldn’t matter. He shot up and felt the bliss and lassitude take over.

_Miss me?_

Hell yes!  Sherlock thought as the drugs disintegrated all the constraints of his mind.

Yes.  Of course, I miss you.  I love you.  He clumsily typed the message and hit send before dropping his phone on the bed next to him.  He knew there would be no reply. There never was. There never would be.


	9. Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim pops over to 221B for their weekly Game Night but Sherlock is busy with a case. They play anyways and everyone is doomed except John who has surgery.

**Games**

Sherlock heard Moriarty coming up the stairs. His lover was so very polite, always made sure to step on _that_ step to announce his arrival. He started a countdown. Jim would need four seconds to reach the top of the steps, seven seconds to pick the lock, it wasn’t a deadbolt, and three and a half seconds to open the door, enter, and close the door. Sherlock waited an extra second and turned his head. No Jim. He frowned.

The silence was overpowering for just a split second until the door opened and Jim smiled coyly at him before picking up two grocery bags and entering. Obviously, Jim had needed the extra time because of the bags. “It’s going to have to wait,” Sherlock stated and turned back to the soil sample under his microscope. “I’m in the middle of an experiment.”

“That’s all right, love,” Jim said without mitigating his Irish accent. He entered the flat and set the bags down by the table where they would be eating. “I’ll set up dinner and that’ll give you enough time to finish up.”

“I’m in the middle of an experiment,” Sherlock grumbled.

“It’s _Game Night_ and considering the sorry state of your kitchen, it’ll take me at least three minutes to find enough clean plates and utensils for us to use. You have plenty of time.”

“James.”

“What are you working on anyways?” Jim sauntered to the kitchen, made a face, and started looking for something that was either clean or wouldn’t need to be soaked for very long in order to come clean.

“The Lofton Mortier case.” Sherlock huffed. “Gerald Lestrade asked me to confirm the police hypothesis that Mr. Mortier was indeed killed by their prime suspect, Lawrence Gardner.”

“Booooooring,” Jim replied in his amused sing-song voice. “And it’s Greg.” 

“It’s Greg? Who’s Greg? I’ve already determined that Lawrence Gardner is not the murderer.” Sherlock turned to eye Jim speculatively. “Greg who?”

“Your friend, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.” Jim rolled his eyes and held up a fork. “Look! A clean one. Be still my heart; thou hast known worse than this.”

“Shakespeare?” Sherlock knew of Jim’s fondness for the playwright.

“Homer, actually,” Jim replied. “And no, your murderer wasn’t Lawrence Gardner, but you could help out my client a whole lot by confirming it like the police want.”

Sherlock skewered Jim with an accusatory look. “I’ll tell you tomorrow morning,” Jim promised sweetly. “It’s a sordid tale of double entendres, love affairs, and inheritances.”

“Of course, follow the money.” Sherlock pulled the slide from the microscope and set it aside. “What did you bring? I expect to be impressed.”

“Honey, I’m always impressive,” Jim replied and smirked. “I brought curry from that little Indian place near where you solved the Reiner case. They had a delicious mango rice custard for dessert so I got a few helpings of that. _And_ I brought a new game.” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “You’ll love it!” Jim walked over to the table, set down the few clean utensils he’d found, and pulled an enormous neon pink bucket from one of the bags. “Bucket of Dooooooom!” he said with as much theatrical menace as he could manage, which, for James Moriarty, was a lot.

*~*~*

After a satisfying meal of Chicken Tikka Vindaloo, Mushroom Pilau, and Saag Bhaji, Jim cleared the table while Sherlock grumbled about suspects and consulting criminals. Once they had enough space, the Bucket of Doom appeared on the table. “Explain,” Sherlock said while eyeing the game skeptically.

“You’ll love it,” Jim said. He opened the bucket and retrieved two sets of cards. “You could get the scotch. Game’s more fun with a bit of libation.”

“I don’t think alcohol and you should be combined with anything that has to do with doom.”

“Or buckets, but don’t worry, Seb and I played the other night along with a few of the minions and a bottle of _crap_ Irish whiskey, wasn’t wasting the good stuff on anyone else, and I think everyone survived.” Jim smirked at Sherlock but then his expression became pensive and he pursed his lips. “I haven’t seen one of the Joyce brothers all day today though…”

“I’m waiting,” Sherlock teased.

“That’s my line,” Jim grumbled. He was shuffling one set of cards and selected one. “Okay, the scenario is ‘You have been half swallowed by a giant snowman. You’re in head first to the waist. What do you do?’ Got it?”

“I’ve been swallowed by a giant snowman? I think we do need the scotch, James.” Sherlock rose and went to the bedroom to retrieve the bottle. “We can always blame it for anything that happens afterward.”

“That and Mycroft,” Jim added. “It’s always Mycroft’s fault. Now, don’t look at these two.” He handed Sherlock and himself two each of the other cards while Sherlock poured them each some scotch. Both took a couple of long sips before Jim continued. “So, when it’s your turn, I’ll go first since I’ve done it before-”

“You say that about a lot of things. I think you just want to go first.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Me? Never.”

Jim took another sip. “So much better than yesterday’s slop. Anyways, the point of the game is, by using only the items in your hand, to escape certain doom-”

“From the inordinately sized, animated snow golem that currently has me in its maw.”

“Yes. You’re abominable,” Jim muttered playfully under his breath. “And you’re only _half_ in its maw.” Sherlock nodded. “There’s supposed to be a time limit but I don’t think either one of us needs it.” Jim looked at his cards and then took another sip. Sherlock matched him. “Hmmmm… to escape certain doom by Frosty the Hitman, I have only a Buzz Lightyear action figure and a pint of pig blood.” He showed Sherlock the cards.

Sherlock snickered. “Shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

“What are you implying Sherlock?” Jim huffed indignantly. “I resemble that remark.” Sherlock chuckled. Jim thought quietly for a few moments but then grinned broadly. “Oh, this is easy-peasy. I use the pig blood in an arcane Celtic ritual whereby the Fey will animate Buzz Lightyear who will then blast the snowman to infinity and beyond.”

“Or just enough to get you out? Although that’s sounds very dramatic the way you said it and you like that,” Sherlock said levelly.

“It’s from the movie. To infinity and beyond. It’s a thing.”

“Oh.” Sherlock took another sip and then picked up his cards. “Presumably I do the same but with the items that I have.” Jim nodded. “Well, I have a toilet brush, lovely, and an etch-a-sketch.”

“You’re doomed.”

“Thank you... No, I just need a moment here.” Sherlock was silent and then steepled his fingers. “Okay, I use the etch-a-sketch to mathematically calculate the precise location of the snowman’s vital organs using vectors, the Reuleaux triangle, and positional analysis with exact derivations of the degrees and arcs. I will then attack the beast’s viscera with the toilet brush until it is the one meeting doom.”

“Oooo, that’s good and even more dramatic than mine.” Jim smiled at him. “You even made the math sound awesome.”

“What happens next?

“Well, we find at least one other player and-”

“James, you brought a _three_ person game for the two of us?” Sherlock stared at him and then downed his drink. “You have to be joking.”

“Someone always drops by.”

“And you have to go into hiding.”

“And how is that a problem? You get an answer out of them while I’m hiding then you brilliantly get rid of them and we resume.”

“You seriously brought a three person game for just the _two_ of us to play.”

“It’s actually for four to twenty people but I figured we’d be fine. We just have to decide who wins.”

“I do. My solution is brilliant,” Sherlock huffed.

Jim glared at him. “Oh, just call John. He can play by phone. It’ll be more exciting than whatever date he’s on. That’s probably true doom, right there”

Sherlock snickered, picked up the phone, and called John. “John? This is important.”

“It better be, Sherlock,” John said tiredly. “I’m about to scrub up for an emergency appendectomy.”

“Yes, so, you’ve been swallowed whole, no scratch that, you’ve been _half_ swallowed by a giant snowman and all you have…” Sherlock looked at Jim who started shuffling the cards in his hands.

“Sherlock, what is this? Is this for a case? Can it wait?” John sounded stressed.

“It’s for a game, John. It’s important. We need your answer.”

“You want to hold up emergency surgery for a game?”

“Yes, I mean, you probably won’t win but we need extra players.”

“Good bye, Sherlock, I have a patient waiting.”

“But John,” Sherlock said and then frowned when John hung up. “He had surgery. Couldn’t talk.”

“How rude.” Jim giggled. “Johnny-boy is always so conscientious.” Sherlock pressed a button to call someone else. “Who are you calling?” The phone rang and a familiar voice answered. “Oh, this’ll be a good one for _him_.”

“Hello, Mycroft, do you have a minute?” Sherlock asked. “John was too busy for me.”

“I always have a minute for you, Sherlock, even when you’re doing things you’re not supposed to be doing.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because Jim set the hidden camera to a loop,” Mycroft answered. “It’s very good but obvious after a while. From where do I need to bail the two of you out of?”

“Please, Mycroft, he’s not here and you haven’t been able to catch Jim after how many years of trying. Do you really think you’re going to now that he and I are having mind-blowing sex instead of trying to kill each other?” Jim buried his face in a pillow to stop from laughing. Mycroft sighed.

“So, you’ve been half swallowed head first by a giant snowman and you need to escape certain death. Got that?”

“Really, Sherlock, what are we doing here?” Mycroft asked patiently.

“Proving that you can keep up for once?” Sherlock retorted immediately. Jim shook his head but provided two cards for Mycroft to use. “You only have a library card and, oh, lucky you, a cheese grater to aid in your escape. What do you do?”

“Well, that’s obviously easy,” Mycroft stated. “Couldn’t you figure it out?”

“I need a drink for this,” Jim said quietly and downed the rest of his scotch. Sherlock nodded and also downed his.

“I use the cheese grater to grate my way out from the inside. I keep the path clear for the grater by using the library card to sweep grated snow out of the way. Once I’m out, I use the library card to rent a good book and enjoy a hot chocolate with an extra dollop of whipped cream to savor my harrowing escape from death.”

“He didn’t get the extra dollop of whipped cream card,” Jim whispered.

“You didn’t get the extra dollop of whipped cream card, Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

“Anything else, tonight, or may I go back to keeping England safe from your lover?”

“Good night, Mycroft,” Sherlock said while Jim shouted the iceman version of that farewell. “Okay, that’s three. Can we just declare me the winner?”

“But I won, so no,” Jim said. “Who else can we call?” Sherlock shrugged. “We have to keep playing until someone gets the bottled fart or the nipple tassels.”

“Oh, well, let’s call Mrs. Hudson then!”

“We’re doomed…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Bucket of Doom is an actual game and it's pretty awesome.


	10. Breakup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A breakup leads to something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was a basic breakup, not leaving someone for someone else, just the relationship didn't work. This story is what happened and it's not quite what the prompt indicated.  
> I've been toying with this scenario for a longer story and that might still happen in the future.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**Breakup**

Mycroft Holmes looked up as he heard the specific cadence of one of his agents, one of his best agents, 003. He looked back down at his paperwork and waited for the man to enter. He would have been cleared by the guards at the entrance of this wing so Mycroft wasn’t concerned.

“Hello, Mycroft,” a soft melodious voice with a rich Irish accent said.

That voice always unnerved him. “003, report,” he said crisply. They’d been lovers a long time ago, when Mycroft was still fairly new to his position and 003 had first been recruited. Mycroft had been drawn to the man’s intellectual prowess, shrewdness, sharpness, and his almost inhuman ability to kill in rather clever and entertaining ways without remorse or even reaction. The fact that 003 was attractive was just the icing on the cake that Mycroft liked to enjoy frequently. 003 seemed to have no qualms indulging him in anything and everything any time he had wanted. 

“Of course, Mycroft,” 003 answered the way he had since they’d broken up seven years prior. “And you _can_ call me James or Jim, like you used to. I won’t bite you… like I used to.” Mycroft chuckled for an instant before his expression returned to neutral. He’d known the dangers of taking a 00 as a lover. All the usual workplace affair pitfalls were compounded by the nature of top security work.

Mycroft had been pleasantly surprised and almost shocked at 003’s diligent circumspection and unquestionable loyalty both to the crown and to _him_. They had broken up because of Mycroft’s inability to let himself care. His refusal to let himself care for someone who had come to love him and, if he were truly honest with himself, someone he’d come to love as well. The breakup had been painful but both had handled it maturely. “Your report, 003,” Mycroft repeated.

James smiled thinly and proceeded to give Mycroft a detailed explanation of his mission in Ukraine. It never failed to impress Mycroft how precise, accurate, and efficient James’s reports were. His ability to focus on the important and not become distracted by the inconsequential was second to none. It was why, even after they had broken up, Mycroft had given James a very important, intensely personal, private, and sensitive case. He knew no one but James could handle safeguarding Sherlock.

“Are your reports filed?” Mycroft asked when James finished.

“Of course,” Jim said in an almost teasing manner. “What kind of consulting killer do you take me for?”

Mycroft desperately wanted to respond with a snide comment but he’d never had a single point of contention with any of 003’s work. “Anything else, then, 003?”

“Yes,” Jim replied. “I submitted a letter of resignation.” Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly. “I would appreciate it if you would not put me through the typical debriefings when someone leaves.”

“No,” Mycroft said tersely. “You will not be allowed to resign.”

Jim shook his head. “Also, Sherlock was just captured by soldiers in Serbia. I’m foregoing my two weeks recuperation. I’ll be on a plane in two hours.” He looked at his watch. “One hour and thirty-seven minutes to be precise. He’ll be out of Serbia in eight hours.”

Mycroft nodded and sighed. “I’ll take care of the paperwork. All of it, but I’m going to ask you to reconsider. You’re the only reason Sherlock is alive. Name your price.”

“You know I can’t be bought, Mycroft,” Jim said.

Mycroft nodded. “It’s…” he sighed.

“I know,” James murmured and walked around to the other side of the desk. Mycroft rose and James kissed him gently on the cheek.

“Keep me posted, please,” Mycroft murmured as 003 walked out of his office. When the door was shut, he closed his eyes and murmured, “James…”

*~*~*

Mycroft had received several texts, all of them in code. 

003 had landed in Serbia.  
003 had initiated the rescue.  
003 had retrieved the prisoner.  
Pertinent information had been sent via a secure channel.  
003 was extricating the prisoner.  
003 and the prisoner were aboard the aircraft and leaving Serbia.

Mycroft had then sighed with relief and poured himself a scotch. 

That had been two days ago and there had been no word since then. None of 003’s trackers or equipment provided a location. The airplane had simply vanished from existence. Mycroft was trying not to panic. He knew that 00’s frequently broke contact during missions and 003 was no exception. He also knew that all 00’s had enemies and occasionally their pasts came back to haunt them, although he was quite sure that 003 was more ruthless than the others in eliminating loose ends.

Mycroft claimed a case of the flu and went home early. Scotch and Plato really were the only remedies for this sort of wait. Shortly before he was ready to turn in, his phone beeped. Mycroft tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t be disappointed or fall into hysteria if it were Anthea checking on him. He opened the message with some trepidation.

It was a picture of 003 and a battered and bruised but smiling Sherlock. His eyes had regained that sparkle that they’d had in their early childhood. Mycroft’s eyes widened. They were someplace tropical. His mind quickly picked out all the details and he cursed the Scotch for slowing him down. Palm trees. Water. Rattan furniture. Thatched roof. Pink umbrella drinks. Fiji. Private villa.

He shook his head and smiled. 003 had decided that Sherlock must have needed a vacation after being captured but… Mycroft frowned as the realization hit him. The Jim Moriarty alias was supposed to be dead and instead they were having daiquiris at a resort. Perhaps this was just one of 003’s numerous shenanigans and it was all photoshopped. 

He analyzed at the picture more closely. There was no way to photoshop the happiness in Sherlock’s expression. Mycroft sighed but then decided that they were rather well-suited. They were both wearing diamond rings on their ring fingers. Matching diamond rings. There was a piece of paper on the rattan table. Mycroft zoomed in and realized he’d need equipment at work to fully read the writing but it was clearly a wedding invitation. “I say,” he muttered out loud as he tried to piece his thoughts together. “That might explain the resignation…”

Eventually he decided that he would just pack some proper clothes, go to work, get the date, time, possibly the location but he guessed that those two would force him to deduce it, and get on a plane. He needed to attend a wedding.


	11. Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows ch. 6: Smut and ch. 7: Afterglow. Jim and Sherlock have moved to Hong Kong are somewhat settling into new identities but consulting similar to what they used to do in London. Sherlock is on an intriguing case and Jim vaguely does a good deed.

**Fluff**

Sherlock was busy staring at red blood cell and tissue samples through his microscope although he hoped that Jim would awaken soon, realize that he had no tea, and make some for the both of them. It was a simple enough case. Lethal hemolysis along with elevated concentrations of methemoglobin and reticulocytes. All indicative of poisoning by a specific subset of pharmaceutical chemicals frequently used for anesthesia. Even if it wasn’t murder, this case was definitely above a five; it might even be a seven.

Various chemical formulations and their structures flashed across his mind: amyl nitrite, chloroquine, dapsone, nitrates, nitrites, nitroglycerin, nitroprusside, phenacetin, phenazopyridine, primaquine, quinones and sulfonamides. He sunk deeper into the descriptions of those substances in his mental textbooks. Suddenly his eye caught something moving and all the chemicals crashed to the floor of his mind palace. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head before taking a deep breath and opening his eyes again. He looked about. Nothing. He listened. Silence. Something had snapped him out of the science library of his mind palace. He sighed. After spending some time in Seoul, he and Jim had moved to Hong Kong and lived in a luxury high rise in the exclusive The Peak neighborhood. It certainly couldn’t have been a rat.

Sherlock, or William Milton, as the Hong Kong Police Department knew him, assisted them with difficult cases like the one he was currently working on. An eccentric widow, Margaret Highpointe, had died in her sleep. Nothing out of the ordinary as she was relatively elderly. The mortician was the first who had spotted oddities in the corpse and called the police. The body had subsequently undergone a full autopsy and the results as well as blood and tissue samples had been sent to Sherlock.

The case was intriguing. Ms. Highpointe was an exceedingly wealthy, even by Hong Kong standards, art collector and dealer. Her entire estate had been left to a pet named Sarah. After Sherlock had inquired, it had been determined that Sarah was missing. There was no sign whatsoever of any pet in her house and her executor, a nephew named Jerry, had no recollection of a pet named Sarah or any pet living with Ms. Highpointe in the past few months. Sherlock was convinced that there were already enough signs indicating foul play even without the examination and analysis of her bloodwork.

Sherlock frowned and picked up the copy of Ms. Highpointe’s medical history. It contained nothing outstanding except high blood pressure medication. Sherlock stared at the report. There had to be something there. As he was focused in, movement caught his attention once more. He looked up and again nothing. He rose and walked to the other side of the table. Once could be chalked up to distraction or too much focus. Twice. No! There had to be something in the apartment. 

Sherlock looked about. Nothing. He kept very still and listened. Nothing. His eyes narrowed and then he marched towards their bedroom. Usually when things were amiss, the fault lay with James Moriarty, Sherlock’s beloved husband, Sean Milton, consulting criminal and all-around trouble maker. “Jim!” he yelled and knocked loudly on the door. He heard grumblings from inside the bedroom and then a squeak from behind him.

He turned and stared at the living room. Nothing. “I am not hallucinating!” Sherlock grumbled and then opened the bedroom door. Jim was standing there looking adorably sleepy, hair tousled, naked, and eyes wide. Sherlock huffed.

“What can I help you with, Sherlock?” Jim asked.

“Tea!” Sherlock said sharply and the shook his head before shooting Jim the contrite look he’d mastered. “Sorry. I’ve been hallucinating. I must be under-caffeinated.”

“I’ll _fix_ that for you, love,” Jim said and smirked while walking toward the kitchen. “It’s still morning. What would you like for breakfast? I can _fix_ that too.”

“Tea,” Sherlock growled. “And beggars can’t be choosers so I’ll grumble about whatever you put in front of me.”

“We’re becoming like an old married couple,” Jim teased. Sherlock sat down and banged his head on the table. “What’s wrong love?”

“I’m hallucinating.”

“You said that already,” Jim noted. “Pray tell about what? Dragging me to the bedroom and ravaging my lust filled body?”

“No,” Sherlock growled but then smiled lopsidedly. “But I could work up to that if you wanted.” Jim shot him a wicked lust-filled glance. “No, I think I’m seeing things. I’m hallucinating rodents in this apartment.” Holding a frying pan which completely ruined the effect, Jim gave him the shocked look from the pool. Sherlock, once again analyzed the percent chance of a rodent being in their luxury flat and shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Lack of caffeine, as you said,” Jim answered. “I’ll make a nice hot breakfast to warm your tummy and everything will be fine.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled and then turned back to the pages of lab and police reports he’d been staring at.

*~*~*

A short while later, a cup of hot tea, a plate of eggs and toast, and a bowl of congee was set in front of him. Sherlock smiled contentedly. “You are the best, my beloved,” he murmured as Jim sat down with just a cup and something black in his arms. Sherlock’s eyes widened. “What the bloody hell is that?!”

Petting the round furry creature, Jim smiled. “This is our new chinchilla.” Sherlock’s eyes widened even more. “What’s wrong love? She’s adorable. She was a rescue.”

“Where did you get her?” Sherlock half-growled while staring at the creature.

“Loooooong story, love,” Jim said. “She’s a double ebony, which means she’s all black. Isn’t she gorgeous. She’s so soft and fluffy! Doesn’t she look like the perfect minion for a consulting criminal.”

“You must be joking. We don’t need a pet.”

“Her name is Sarah!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	12. Meeting Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock insists on meeting Jim's family. It doesn't turn out quite as he expected but he learns a bit about Jim's childhood.

**Meeting Family**

Jim and Sherlock walked hand in hand down the tree-lined path of Glasnevin Cemetery. After Jim had suffered through numerous weekends at Mummy’s with Mycroft and scores of other relatives that insisted on coming out of the woodwork like doodlebugs upon hearing that Sherlock and Jim were engaged, Sherlock had requested to meet Jim’s family. Jim had demurred a few times but finally arranged his schedule to allow for a weekend in Dublin.

Sherlock had been surprised when instead of visiting some quaint neighborhood, Jim had brought him _there_. In retrospect, he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. He wanted to ask so many questions and make deduction after deduction but felt somewhat guilty at having pushed the issue and so remained silent. Jim would speak when he was ready.

Eventually they veered off the path and wound their way through graves on small footpaths finally stopping at a small, simple grave that was decorated with brilliantly colored flowers. Sherlock stared at the name and dates. “Caitriona Nessa McDermott,” he said and looked at Jim questioningly. “Too early to be your Mum?”

“Mamo,” Jim said. “Grandmother. She went by Ness. It means not easy or gentle. She was a strong woman but she was kind.” He tipped his head and smiled at Sherlock as he remembered.

“Did she raise you?” Sherlock pulled Jim in close.

Jim shook his head. “No, not really.” He then laughed when Sherlock stared at him. “You want the whole James Moriarty history?”

“I’ll admit to being curious.”

“Short version and then you’re buying me a pint or three.”

“Deal. And maybe some dessert as well.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Jim giggled but then his expression became pensive, almost sad. “Mamo and later Mam worked for a rich, important prick from a noble family with a big estate,” Jim said. “The pedo, and before you ask, yes, he’s still alive and I _will_ take him down one of these days when I’m bored. He liked them young. Mam was working there illegally. You were supposed to be sixteen but the head of housekeeping looked the other way if you were pretty.”

“I see,” Sherlock muttered coldly. “You happened.”

“I happened. Oops. She was offered enough money to terminate and then she was let go.”

“I’m glad she didn’t.”

Jim shrugged. “She would have been better off if she had. Dropped out of school, couldn’t get work, lost all of her friends, you know, Irish catholic, the _horrible_ stigma. We were too poor to handle that, an extra mouth, so she eventually hooked up with an abusive… I don’t even want to call him a human being. I did kill _him_ later. But while Mam was still alive we would visit Mamo every now and then and it was nice.”

“How did she die?”

“Which one?”

Sherlock shrugged and pulled Jim in even closer against him. “Both?”

“Mam, well, the expected: booze, drugs, beatings, lather, rinse, repeat,” Jim replied almost too casually. “Mamo? Old age. Once I had enough money, I took care of her. She didn’t want anything fancy but she asked that I put flowers at her grave every now and then.” He turned into Sherlock and buried his face into the Belstaff before muttering something.

“What?”

“I pay someone to bring flowers three times a week and keep it pretty,” Jim said.

“You live in London. That’s acceptable,” Sherlock murmured into Jim’s hair. “You’re doing what you can. It’s not like you’re forgetting.”

“I want to do more.”

“You’re giving yourself unreasonable standards,” Sherlock said and gently kissed the top of Jim’s head. “What you’re doing is fine.” He decided to change the subject before Jim started obsessing. “So, who’s the pedo? Do I know him?”

“Not personally,” Jim said while turning to face his grandmother’s grave once more. “To be honest, I’m not sure he completely knew about any of it, or knew that Mam was underage, although how bloody oblivious do you have to be. He certainly didn’t bother to think about why suddenly a lot of the young ones that he was sleeping with would suddenly vanish.”

“Possibly no one ever told him about you?”

“The head of staff was pretty draconic from what I’ve heard,” Jim said. “It’s too bad _he’s_ dead. Died before I could get to him.”

“Agreed. I’d help you.”

“Thanks, Sherl.”

“You haven’t told me _his_ name,” Sherlock pressed. “I’d rather not waste hours trying to figure it out when we can be doing other things. I am _rather_ curious.”

Jim smirked and then smiled in a positively devilish fashion. “He’s pretty much Ireland’s equivalent of Mycroft.” He laughed when he saw Sherlock’s eyes widen. “A minor government official.”

“Robert Patrick Ó Muircheartaigh.” Sherlock shook his head and then laughed. “That’s why you use Moriarty only for your consulting!” Jim nodded and smiled smugly. “And no one ever got it...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	13. Amnesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has a new life in Dublin when suddenly Sherlock drops back into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt was Adaptation Swap but it didn't work all that well for me. The lovely fabricdragon suggested _amnesia_ as a substitute and here we are! There will definitely be a part two and perhaps a part three to this one.  
>  As always, thank you for reading.

**Amnesia**

Sighing, Jim looked about the almost vacant luxurious flat and felt a bit melancholy. He and Sebastian had spent the better part of two days removing all the subtle evidence that James Moriarty had lived there. It had been one of his favorites and one that he had considered a residence more than a safehouse. But James Moriarty was long dead and Professor James O'Murtagh didn’t need five luxury flats in London.

Professor James O'Murtagh lived in Dublin and taught mathematics, physics, and astrophysics at Trinity University. Glasses, a beard, hints of silver in his dark hair plus a minuscule amount of plastic surgery made him unrecognizable from James Moriarty, consulting criminal, former nemesis of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes; if anyone were to bother searching for someone that was officially dead.

He was still a consultant but mostly for legal and academic matters. Only occasionally would the rare criminal undertaking that he deemed incredibly interesting and challenging be accepted even though Jim kept his fingers on the pulse of the underworld. At that moment, he was waiting for Sebastian to return. He’d sent his bodyguard, second-in-command, and sometimes lover to permanently eliminate some hard drives, deliver some information to a former associate, and check up on Sherlock Holmes.

Lately, Sherlock had fallen more and more into drugs. Heroin and cocaine. Jim had come to London a bit more frequently but hadn’t been sure what to do about the situation. Big brother Mycroft had, so far, managed to pull his brother away from the edge each and every time. Jim was still concerned. He hadn’t planned on dismantling this apartment for a few more months but something had told him to come back that week and do it. He blamed the faeries that lived in his garden in Dublin. He fed them chocolate bonbons and cream almost every night and they were helpful.

The wait was killing Jim. He’d told Sebastian to text him at every point and so far, only the mundane tasks had been accomplished. Jim had nothing left to do but wait. Everything to be removed had been packed and placed in one of two very distinct piles; one for the van and one for the dumpster. Everything else would be left for staging, although Jim was sure the flat would sell in weeks if not days. To distract himself, he sat on the couch and stared out of the picture window at the Thames. Eventually he pulled out his phone, tracked Seb’s location, and then started reading a paper on the theory of turbulence and tidal effect in the liquid cores of some planets.

Jim hadn’t realized how much time he’d lost reading and analyzing the paper until the sound of the door startled him out of his thoughts. It was almost dusk. Instinctively, he reached for his gun but then reminded himself that only Seb would be coming to this apartment and knew how to disarm the alarm. “Hey, Jim!” his sniper’s voice bellowed through the apartment. “I got you a present!” His tone turned playful. “And I see that you got some work done! Good job, boss!”

Rolling his eyes, Jim shook his head. “If it’s not that Vermeer that I’ve had my eye on for a while, I may have to kill you for that.”

Sebastian sauntered into the room carrying a body wrapped in a large blanket over one shoulder. “But you love me,” he countered and then lowered the body to the floor before unwrapping it. 

“What on earth?” The fetid smell of urine, alcohol, body odor, blood, and who knew what else hit Jim just before the identity of the person was revealed. Sherlock. A bloodied, unconscious, filthy, and most likely drugged and drunk Sherlock. Jim stared up at Sebastian in surprise and then shook his head while promising to get the faeries some British bonbons. 

“Found him behind Peter’s place,” Sebastian said. “No one knew what happened but from the looks of it, someone cracked him on the head, nasty gash there.” Sebastian pointed to a fairly significant injury on Sherlock’s head that still seemed to be oozing just a bit. “And then robbed him blind. Nothing on him. No phone, no wallet, no keys, no smokes, no tracers, nothing.”

“Were you followed?” Jim asked as his mind started formulating plans. This couldn’t be more perfect.

“Oh, my God, boss, what kind of a wannabe pick pocket do you take me for?” Sebastian grumbled. “Did you set the kettle? I need some tea after this. Smell carried from all the way in the trunk.”

“What kind of a criminal mastermind do _you_ take me for?” Jim growled. “You can make your own damn cup of tea and make me one too while you’re at it.” Sebastian shot him his best wide-eyed innocent look. “Oh, fine, there are two mugs, Irish Breakfast, in the kitchen but _you_ can reheat them.” 

Sebastian walked toward the kitchen while Jim turned back and stared at Sherlock. He was breathing slowly but regularly. Clearly Sherlock had managed to give both Mycroft and John the slip and gotten himself into a bit of trouble and quite a lot of drugs. Perhaps a change of scenery would help him. Sebastian had experience in helping others get off of drugs and Jim sensed that Sherlock needed attention, mental stimulation, and perhaps, some care, that Mycroft, no matter how decent of a big brother he was, and Jim wasn’t altogether sure of even that, couldn’t provide.

Seb returned to the living room and handed Jim a cup of warm tea. “Here you go, boss! I made you a nice hot cup of tea,” he announced cheerfully.

“You have a death wish, Moran.” Jim glared at Sebastian who just smiled sweetly. “We’re taking him to Dublin with us. The two piles over there, one is for the dumpster, the other also comes with us. Put him in the van first. I’ll see if I can clean out the head wound. Oh, and I’ll need the tranquilizers. Don’t want Sleeping Beauty to wake up and cause a ruckus in transit.”

“Just be careful,” Sebastian stated. “I’m betting he’s got a lot of drugs in his system. I have no idea how long it’s been since he dosed up or how many times. Pete said he’d been at the flat a few days. Using. Was getting set to leave.” Jim’s eyed widened. “I’m guessing he’s past immediate danger at this point but his body’s probably just had enough. And getting conked on the head probably didn’t help.”

“I know. I probably won’t need anything.”

*~*~*

Jim felt Sherlock start to rouse and shudder, followed by violent heaving. He barely had enough time to lift Sherlock’s upper body and grab the bucket before the other man vomited a green bilious substance. This time most of it ended up _in_ the bucket. Jim decided the sheets wouldn’t need to be changed until Sherlock lost control again. It had been a hideous eighteen hours of caring for the man and only now Jim was beginning to see signs of improvement. 

Sherlock coughed and sputtered but then lowered his arms to brace himself against the bed. Jim kept his arms wrapped around him just in case. “What… happened?” Sherlock rasped out.

“You overdosed, love,” Jim said quietly. He was surprised that the man didn’t react to his voice. “I’d say you almost offed yourself this time. And you got mugged. Nasty gash on your head.” He shifted and reached for a glass of water for Sherlock.

“Thank you.” Sherlock took the glass and then sipped it slowly before looking intently at the room, his attention occasionally resting on something. “Where? Where am I?”

“The guest room,” Jim answered. “You made quite the mess. I figured it would be easier to clean this room afterward.”

Sherlock nodded and then turned to look at Jim. He seemed to analyze every millimeter of Jim’s face. He then scanned the room again and stared at the sorry condition of the bed and the bucket he’d just vomited in before turning back to Jim. “Who are you?” He carefully took another sip of water.

Jim couldn’t hide the momentary shock that crossed his face. “You don’t remember, honey?” was all he managed to stammer.

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “And for that matter, who am _I_?”

Jim’s mind went temporarily blank and then his thoughts started racing. “Do you remember anything?”

“No, I can’t seem to find any recollections, bring anything up. What’s my _name_?” 

Jim gasped. Sherlock had complete amnesia. He didn’t remember _anything_. It was probably from a combination of the blow to the head and all the drugs. This was a golden opportunity. He’d wanted Sherlock since he’d been thirteen and Sherlock hadn’t been fooled by the Carl Powers case. At that moment, so many years ago, Jim had known that Sherlock was the only one for him. There had been so many obstacles along the way and, after Mycroft had tortured Jim with Sherlock’s tacit approval, he’d given up hope. This was a complete reset. They could start over. The faeries were getting strawberries that evening along with their cream.

“You’re William Scott O'Murtagh,” Jim said slowly. Sherlock nodded as though it made sense. “You’re a concert violinist. We’ve been married about five years. We eloped to Ireland to escape your brother.”

“My brother?”

“Mikey,” Jim answered and knew he couldn’t quite keep the distaste out of his voice. “Michael. He was against us from the beginning.”

“Is he a homophobe?”

“Absolutely, and he hated me with a passion.”

“You were corrupting me?” Sherlock supplied.

Jim smirked. “We came here and got married. I’m from here and I teach at Trinity.”

“What do you teach?” Sherlock smiled but then frowned as a thought crossed his mind. “Does it bother you that I don’t remember any of this?”

“No, love,” Jim murmured. “I’m just glad you’re alive. You could have died on me. We’re kicking the drugs for good this time.”

“Sooooo, I use drugs?”

“No!” Jim almost screamed at him and Sherlock cringed. “Sorry, I’m sorry. No, you _used_ drugs but it’s stopping now. I’m not losing you. I can’t handle that.”

Sherlock carefully lifted his arms and hugged Jim. “I’m lucky to have you.” And for reasons he couldn’t explain, James O'Murtagh, formerly Jim Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal in all of Europe if not the world, felt tears roll down his cheeks as he pulled Sherlock closer.


	14. Era Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock writes an article for the newspaper about the notorious gangster, James 'The Spider' Moriarty and has it delivered to the newspaper editor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is written from and biased to Sherlock's POV.  
> TW: period typical elitism, period typical racism, period typical homophobia
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**Era Change**

Sherlock Holmes set his Waterman pen down near the inkwell and eyed his latest manuscript with a sense of joy. My History with James ‘The Spider’ Moriarty would be his greatest accomplishment to date especially once the trial was over and the notorious gangster had been sent to prison. The article would enlighten the people of New York, Chicago, and perhaps all of the colonies to the extent of organized crime and the extent that this one man controlled organized crime. The Spider indeed. He’d already sent a dispatch to the courier company and they would soon send his favorite courier, who would bring the article to the newspaper editor. Once he’d made a cup of tea, he sat down and reread his manuscript.

> Many New York gangsters in the early 20th Century came from impoverished backgrounds and Moriarty was no different. Born in 1899, the son of poor immigrants from Ireland turned to crime to make a living. Moriarty soon made a name for both the efficient and ruthless way that he ran his criminal empire and the frequently clever way that the mastermind’s crimes were executed. Pun intended.
> 
> The young Moriarty's home was far from salubrious. He lived in a squalid little cockroach-infested tenement home near the Navy Yard. It was a tough place given Moriarty’s small size and the number of vices sought by the transients and sailors that frequented the area. The family was an absolute detriment to a young child growing up. The mother turned to prostitution to support an opium addiction. The step-father was a vicious and abusive alcoholic drunkard who turned on young James when the mother was unavailable. 
> 
> But it was Moriarty's schooling, both inadequate to meet his great intellect and brutal at a Catholic institution beset with violence and bullying that marred the impressionable young man and led him to commit his first crime, the murder of Carl Powers. 
> 
> It was then that Moriarty’s path merged with the criminal underworld. He met the gangster, Vito ‘Machine Gun’ Lagonza, who introduced him to racketeering and the two became allies and friends. Moriarty soon became a master of obscuration while maintaining a respectable front to deflect authorities. 
> 
> Lagonza moved from New York to Chicago in 1909 to help run the giant brothel business there and Moriarty ruthlessly took over as the head of organized crime in New York. As Prohibition began, new bootlegging operations opened up and drew in immense wealth. In 1925 Lagonza retired, and Moriarty became the crime czar of Chicago as well. His portfolio includes gambling, prostitution, smuggling, bootlegging, murder for hire, art heists, protection rackets, and opiate dealing. With his associate Sebastian ‘Bugsy’ Moran, James Moriarty was virtually unstoppable. 
> 
> The following high-profile cases are some of the most notable and intriguing with which I have had the pleasure to assist and I suspect Moriarty’s involvement even though they are not his typical quotidian affairs. After this brief introduction, I will highlight what I believe is The Spider’s involvement even though there is no legal substantiation. 
> 
> a. The Death of the Pink Flapper, January 18, 1919  
>  b. The High Street Bombing, September 16, 1920  
>  c. The Blind Bootlegger, October 3, 1922  
>  d. The Great Hound of Boston, February 22, 1924  
>  e. The Six Wilsons, November 30, 1928  
>  f. The Speckled Blonde Aviatrix, June 3, 1931
> 
> For some inexplicable reason, Moriarty allowed himself to be caught after a brazen heist at the Metropolitan Museum of Art this past St. Valentine's Day. The caper has become a national media event immortalizing Moriarty’s brilliance and daring and glorifying criminality. I will be assisting the barristers in analyzing the evidence against James Moriarty and proving his guilt beyond the shadow of a doubt. – _W. S. S. Holmes_

After rereading his work, he sipped his tea until he heard the footsteps of his courier stepping lightly up the stairs. Jimmy was a career courier. He must have dropped out of school if he had even stepped foot in one and had certainly reached the apex of his life. Sherlock didn’t mind him that much even if he was Irish. Jimmy was discreet when he dropped off morphine or the occasional bottle of Scotch; he was reliable with all of his deliveries; and he was a good kisser. Sherlock had been surprised that the other man had casually mentioned that he kissed for tips and he couldn’t deduce how Jimmy had determined that he would be receptive. Homosexuality was damn near punishable by death. He suspected that, based on the size of the tip, Jimmy would be willing to proceed further than just kissing. Surprisingly, that aspect didn’t disgust Sherlock as much as the simple fact that Jimmy was Irish.

“Come in,” Sherlock said when he heard the soft knock.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” Jimmy said as he entered the flat. He wore thin trousers, in which Sherlock immediately noticed the tiny holes starting, a neat button-down work shirt, a vest, and the cap, which Sherlock refused to admit he found adorable. Despite the abject poverty he must live in, his dark chocolate eyes always sparkled and his dark brown hair was neatly cut if frequently wind-tousled. “How are you today?”

Sherlock also refused to admit that the heavy Irish accent sounded melodious coming from Jimmy. “Fine, fine, wonderful; do you have a delivery for me?”

“Yeah, of course, Mr. Holmes.” Jimmy set down a package wrapped in brown cloth on Sherlock’s desk as he always did. “They said you had something for me to pick up for the paper?”

“Yes,” Sherlock stated. “The ink should be dry. I just need to get an envelope.”

“Is it another article?” Jimmy asked wide-eyed. 

Another thing that Sherlock refused to admit was how much he was fond of Jimmy’s adoration. He supposed one day, he should use that to try and help the man better himself slightly but he was rather busy at the moment with cases and the upcoming trial. “Yes, it’s an article detailing the exploits of the gangster James ‘the Spider’ Moriarty in anticipation of the trial tomorrow. Would you like me to read it to you?”

“I would love that, sir!” Jimmy answered. Sherlock moved to his big armchair and then Jimmy shyly sat on his lap while Sherlock read. He enthusiastically asked numerous questions and Sherlock was incredibly pleased. Then they kissed and Sherlock sensed a difference. The kisses were more passionate perhaps, as though Jimmy had truly appreciated Sherlock’s article and the reading of it to him and was trying to express that. Sherlock was almost tempted to see if Jimmy might be interested in more that day but then he reminded himself that he was Irish.

After a few minutes, Sherlock sent Jimmy off to deliver the article. He needed to think and prepare for the trial in two days. It would be his first face-to-face encounter with the elusive gangster. The police photographs had vanished before Sherlock had seen them and no one had much more than a generic recollection of what the man looked like. It didn’t matter. Sherlock was prepared to put James ‘The Spider’ Moriarty away for life.


	15. Crack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock accompanies Mycroft on a seaside holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied drug use
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**Crack**

“I’m going out, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered and then walked past his brother, who had been mid-lecture about everything that Sherlock was doing wrong with his life, his attempt at reconciliation with John, the neatness, or rather astounding lack thereof, in his apartment, and his lack of propriety, manners, sustainable income, and all-around competence at anything that didn’t involve solely his intellect.

Sherlock would rather have told Mycroft _exactly_ where he could go and how to get there but, deep down, he understood that Mycroft, in his misguided way, actually cared about him. Therefore, he pursed his lips and walked out the door without saying anything else. Watching the sunset over the ocean would help relax him and clear his mind.

He and Mycroft were visiting one of Mycroft’s acquaintances, Lord Kirkham-Maxwell, at his coastal estate in Falmouth, Cornwall. Mycroft had somehow gotten the brilliant idea, just after capturing one of Moriarty’s high-level lieutenants, Colonel Sebastian Moran, not letting Sherlock question the man, and then letting him escape, that they both could use a holiday by the sea.

Sherlock would rather have tried to recapture the man to get more information about Moriarty or return to his drug induced crime-solving alternate reality. _Miss me?_ Of course, Sherlock did. He was bored out of his mind and the only person at his intellectual capacity currently existed only in his mind. As he marched resolutely from the house and towards the water, he considered taking a small dose of heroin but then decided against it. He’d only brought a little and the car trip with Mycroft had required some use. Plus, he supposed it would upset Mycroft if he used around his friend, the Lord of whatnot.

Sighing, Sherlock slowed his pace and gazed at the colors in the sky. Brilliant hues of yellow and orange edged with reds and gold. It’s beauty both soothed and invigorated him while giving him a strange sense of peace. Sherlock absentmindedly wondered if there was a way to repeat the awe he felt with some chemical formulations. And then he chuckled at himself: too bored, so pathetic, so pointless, trying to mimic nature’s beauty with a drug high. Sherlock felt a pang of loneliness. 

When he reached the beach, he carefully found a spot where he could sit and lean back somewhat comfortably against the rocks but still have his feet on the sand. He took his shoes and socks off and then contentedly ran his toes through the soft sand, heated by the afternoon sun. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the briny air and felt tension and worry seep out of him. He could almost hear a mystical symphony or melodious voice in the gentle breeze that was picking up. Everything about that moment seemed perfect and the sound of the waves lulled him into tranquility. 

Soon the moon began to rise and the sky grew more and more dark. Sherlock absorbed every sensation around him. The music was ethereal and yet its presence was becoming stronger. Every now and then Sherlock pondered how he could be so relaxed. It was like his mind had found a way to slow down just enough for him to be cognizant but not overwhelmed by everything. 

There must be something mystical about this locale but Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint it. The water seemed very alluring. Sherlock was intrigued and suddenly felt called to go into the water. A swim would not only invigorate him both mentally and physically but he could investigate the sound, so akin to music, determine if it were coming from the water or if it was just somehow the wind. Plus, it had been years since he gone for a night swim. The last time was probably when he was barely out of primary school and Mycroft had entered university early.

Standing gracefully, Sherlock started to remove his clothes. It was dark; no one would see him walking the short stretch to the water. He noticed that the water was getting a bit choppy but he didn’t worry. He was a strong swimmer and he wouldn’t go out far. The evening was perfect and a night swim would make the perfect ending. He left his clothes in a heap tucked behind the rock and strode purposefully toward the water. The music seemed to be calling him and he needed to find out how this effect occurred.

The water was cool as he stepped in and felt incredible against his skin. His mind scrambled to understand how the sensation was different or enhanced this time compared to the past or even other, more recent, times that he’d touched water and it came up blank. It seemed all he could do was feel the cool water, breathe the briny air, listen to the melody, savor the glorious ocean now silvered with moonlight, and keep moving forward. 

Sherlock began to swim. The music ebbed and flowed like the waves but it was constant and he could feel it almost whispering to every cell in his body. Sherlock swam farther. A small part of his mind noted that the water was getting rougher and he was, perhaps, too far out. Perhaps he should pause, make his deductions, and go back to the safety of land. Sherlock continued swimming. It was too beautiful to stop. The music, while not louder, had become _more_. It was all encompassing and became his sole focus. 

He swam further and further, through the now stronger waves. He could feel them start to sap his energy but he didn’t care. Sherlock had to reach the music. He couldn’t stop. It was almost as though he were trying to reach the moon, or the horizon, or some elusive state of nirvana. Each stroke, each kick, was becoming harder and harder. Exhaustion was encroaching and Sherlock didn’t care. 

And then he felt something hit his foot before he was pulled completely under the water. The surprise and shock was diluted by a rush of bliss at being completely surrounded by cool, water and totally encompassed by music. It was better than any drug or endorphin rush he’d ever felt. And something was anchoring him. It was a gentle but strong grip. Soon, parts of his mind started screaming that he needed to surface for oxygen while other parts deduced that there were fingers wrapped around his ankles. Fingers that were soft and smooth as satin yet strong as steel.

Finally, his body and sense of self-preservation won out over his state of euphoria and he struggled to surface. The hand seemed to push him upward while still holding on to him. Gasping when he broke the surface, he started inhaling and exhaling rapid. The music stopped; his lungs hurt; and his body felt debilitating fatigue. Arms wrapped around him from behind and held him up, then a slender body slid around him so they were facing. Sherlock was too beyond exhaustion to register shock at seeing James Moriarty.

“Sherlock,” Jim said and Sherlock felt the words echo through him like the music.

“Moriarty…” Sherlock gasped.

“Jim.” It was a suggestion that Sherlock felt compelled to follow.

“Jim,” Sherlock repeated and tried to clear his mind. “What… How…”

“Shhhhh, love.” Jim kissed Sherlock tenderly.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock pressed. Nothing seemed to make any sense starting with how James Moriarty was in the water with him.

“I live here,” Jim said and Sherlock felt something wrap itself around his lower body. The only thought that came to him was a mermaid tail. “Welcome to my home.”

“You’re a mermaid?!” Sherlock blurted out as he felt the fish skin against him and he wiggled his toes.

“No, silly, mer _man_ or merfolk.” Jim giggled. “And stop that; it tickles!”

“Sorry…” Sherlock tried to hold still. Jim was somehow holding him up and moving with the water so that they rose and fell with the waves. “Am I dreaming? Did I actually take a dose and you’re in my head?”

“No, love,” Jim whispered sibilantly. “I lured you here. It was time for me to take a mate. We have rather complex traditions. I tried flirting with you on land but you _just_ didn’t get it.”

“Bomb vests are not my idea of a seduction,” Sherlock quipped but then thought better of it. He probably shouldn’t infuriate Jim considering his current predicament be it real or in his mind.

Jim giggled again. “I adore you,” he said. “And I guess I should have simply _asked_. Do you want to be my mate?”

Sherlock blinked and once more tried to make sense of the entire situation. Nothing came to him. “Sure, why not?” he eventually said and then decided to add, “I did miss you.”

“Good,” Jim murmured and pulled him closer. “Because the other option would have been _you_ becoming dinner since you know the truth about me.” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Don’t fret. It’s nothing to worry about now.” He pulled Sherlock in for a deep kiss.

Sherlock felt warmth suffuse his body and he put his arms around Jim’s waist. His hands caressed Jim’s hips where smooth skin seamlessly changed to scales. He sensed a subtle change happening within him and felt Jim humming. He recognized it as the beautiful music that he’d been hearing. 

Jim pulled away and looked at him coyly. “You can breathe underwater now,” he said. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of that or how much all of this was real or a drug induced fantasy. Jim pulled him under.


	16. Injury/Hurt/Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes Jim to meet his father and things _really_ don't go as planned.  
>  Sherlock goes on a rampage.  
> There will, most likely, be a part 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sequel to Day 12: Meeting Family. It loses something if you haven't read that one first.  
> Thank you for reading.

**Injury/Hurt/Comfort**

“I don’t believe we’re doing this Sherlock,” Jim grumbled in a sing-song voice as they were escorted around the main security checkpoint for the Ministry of Defense offices in Ireland.

“We are!”

“This is your fault.” Jim’s voice returned to normal but a smile appeared on his face.

“It is! However, I had some help,” Sherlock said. After he and Jim had visited the cemetery, he’d felt that Jim was a bit depressed and Sherlock had wanted to do something to perhaps help Jim connect to his only remaining family. He’d contacted Mycroft who had arranged for the two of them to meet his Irish counterpart, Robert Patrick Ó Muircheartaigh.

“It’s definitely also the Iceman’s fault,” Jim growled. “I suppose if things go poorly, I’ll have a good excuse to add cyanide to that piece of cake he has delivered to his office every afternoon that _no one_ is supposed to know about.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I have my ways, love.”

Sherlock intertwined his fingers with Jim’s and smiled at a guard that they walked by. “I guess it’s lucky I’m sleeping with you, so you won’t put cyanide in _my_ cake!” The guard’s eyes widened slightly and Jim growled. Sherlock kissed the side of his face gently. “I love you.”

“I still don’t think this is a brilliant idea, _William_ ,” Jim said. 

“Those are fighting words, _Jimmy_ ,” Sherlock teased.

“Death wish. One call to Moran…” Jim and Sherlock were led to an office that could very well have been Mycroft’s and asked to sit in the antechamber. Sherlock smirked and then they both started to play “Clever Scenarios” whereby each one of them plotted how to steal an ashtray in the most clever fashion and not get caught smuggling it out. They were about to proceed to Cleverest Murder of a Diplomat when the door to the inner office opened and a man stepped out.

Sherlock and Jim rose and Jim had to force himself to keep his jaw from falling. Sherlock inhaled sharply. The man resembled Jim closely enough that a familial relationship was fairly obvious. The man looked at the two of them sharply and then glared. “Well, I have no idea how you got Mycroft Holmes involved in this foolishness but, at least, all you two-bit crooks are starting to enlist people who resemble me.”

At those words, shock appeared across Jim’s face and his jaw momentarily did fall open before he clamped it shut. Sherlock felt nothing but anger. “We’re here to see Robert Patrick Ó Muircheartaigh,” he said in his best imitation of Mycroft. “I don’t suppose you could make an attempt at getting over yourself and see to it about fetching him for us. We have an appointment.”

“Two-bit criminal…” Jim muttered under his breath. “You have to be joking.”

“I am Robert Patrick Ó Muircheartaigh and I already know what you’re after,” the man stated coldly. “I’ve seen this repeatedly of late, sometimes multiple times in one day, and if you do not leave the premises this instant, I will have you both arrested and then you can see if Mycroft Holmes will fetch _you_ out of jail.”

“You, sir, are a pompous arsehole, an utter twat, and a ridiculously insecure tosser all in one,” Sherlock growled.

Jim’s eyes widened and he grabbed one of Sherlock’s arms. “Let’s go, Sherl. I don’t really need this.”

Sherlock turned to Jim. “I’ve only just begun.” He turned back to Robert Patrick Ó Muircheartaigh and skewered him with a disgust-filled, condescending look. “You’re a chundering minge trolley, a preposterous marmite sandwich, and an unrepented bell-ended fluffer!”

“Really, time to go, Sherlock,” Jim said firmly and started to pull the detective toward the door.

“I’m not done, Jim.” Sherlock continued glaring at the man. “If you think we came here to con any money out of you or mooch off of your sympathy, you are sadly mistaken, you barmy haggis-filled plonker.” Robert Patrick Ó Muircheartaigh remained icily silent.

“No, really, you’re done, Sherlock,” Jim opened the door and pulled his lover out before slamming the door soundly. “C’mon. I need another pint.”

“Worthless fopdoodle,” Sherlock muttered at the door and then smiled wanly at the guard. “My condolences.”

“Of course, sir,” the guard said evenly although it looked like he wanted to laugh.

With Sherlock muttering colorful insults left and right every time they walked by someone, Jim was actually surprised that they made it out of the building without being arrested or his needing to call Sebastian for an extrication. They eventually made it to one of the gay-friendly pubs in the city and Sherlock promptly pulled Jim in his lap, wrapped his arms around him and ordered a ridiculous amount of chips, since that was one of the foods that Jim ate almost mindlessly. “Are you all right?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Was I ever all right?” Jim countered and smirked. He would never admit to having been shocked and, perhaps, saddened by what had just happened. Semtex cured all ails.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That point is highly debatable.” He kissed the side of Jim’s face. “I mean right now; that was pretty awful.”

“I don’t care,” Jim retorted. “I’ll start working on his destruction as soon as we get back to London.”

“A sound plan. What a bastard!”

“No, technically he’s not, I am, but that’s not saying much.” Jim snuggled into Sherlock a bit more. “He called me a _two-bit_ criminal…”

“I don’t think he realized who you are,” Sherlock noted. “He’s a mutton-headed scrounger.”

Jim giggled softly. “What’s with all the, eh, clever and creative insults, Sherl? You were on quite the rampage.”

“Mmmm… that.” Sherlock took a sip of his water. “I, well, I wrote a blog on the various insults that people have used since about the 1600’s. I find it rather interesting but I think I have to cut it back from twenty-three pages otherwise people won’t read it.”

“Your blog is twenty-three pages?”

“I’m thinking of cutting a few out.”

“I see.” Jim turned to look at Sherlock. “So, you were really just practicing?”

“Yes!” Sherlock exclaimed but then saw the sadness in Jim’s eyes. “I mean, no. He deserved each and every insult I hurled at him.”

“But you were just trying out phrases from your blog? It wasn’t for me.”

“No, it was both. He is all that and then some.” Sherlock nuzzled Jim’s the side of Jim’s head. “He didn’t understand that you didn’t want anything, anything material, from him.”

“He called me a _two-bit criminal_ ,” Jim growled quietly. Sherlock huffed and then sighed when Jim buried his face in his coat and started trembling slightly. Sherlock guessed his lover didn’t want him to see or acknowledge his tears. Their chips came shortly thereafter and he encouraged Jim to eat. Eventually they managed to finish everything that Sherlock had ordered along with a few drinks. 

Jim still hadn’t moved from Sherlock’s lap and was busy brushing salt off of Sherlock when Sherlock’s phone rang with Crazy Frog’s remix of Axel F. “Uh oh,” Sherlock grumbled. “I’m guessing word got to Mycroft.”

“You better get it.” Jim said and scooted off of Sherlock’s lap. “You can tell him why that _two-bit government official_ was not worth our time and effort and why you called him all those names.”

Sherlock nodded and rose. “Why don’t you see if you can get us some dessert, maybe to go. I’ll try to ditch him quickly.” He started to walk outside the restaurant. “Yes, Mycroft…”

Jim set about ordering dessert and then paid their tab. When it seemed that Sherlock wouldn’t be returning quickly, he sat down at the bar and ordered another pint. He didn’t think he should have one more but perhaps it would lead to increased creativity in whatever plan he came up with to destroy Robert Patrick Ó Muircheartaigh. Whatever it was, it needed to be spectacular. The man deserved no less. Jim was soon lost in thought.

“Did you order me another?” Sherlock asked and startled Jim. “Plotting world domination, were you?” Jim glared at him. “Mycroft was surprisingly decent.” Sherlock took the glass from Jim and downed what was left all at once. Jim glared at him again but then used him to pull himself up. They both walked arm-in-arm out of the pub.

“So, it seems Mycroft got a call from the arsehole,” Sherlock related as they walked down the street, “and, all on his own, proceeded to explain to him, _exactly_ , who you are and that you don’t need a single penny from him.” Sherlock grinned wickedly. “It seems he’s recently had a family tragedy and people have tried to take advantage of him. Supposedly, he was rather abashed and contrite about the whole thing so Mycroft proceeded to rub it in rather smugly.” Jim chuckled. “And then I think Mycroft called him a horse-bothering willy.”

Jim laughed and wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Well, for all that _he’s_ a bothersome pain in the arse and I haven’t completely gotten over what he did to me, Mycroft is sort of a decent big brother. I’m glad you have him.” Sherlock smiled sly and remained silent on the fact that he’d decided to share Mycroft as a big brother.


	17. Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While cooking dinner after a stressful day, Jim and Sherlock are visited by Robert Patrick Ó Muircheartaigh.   
> This is the continuation of Day 12 and Day 16.
> 
> TW: mention of unwitting underage relations

**Domestic**

Sherlock looked at Jim and smiled. Despite what they’d been through that morning, Jim seemed better although Sherlock could feel the anger simmering underneath. He knew Jim had been hurt and angered by what had happened during their visit to Robert Patrick Ó Muircheartaigh. Jim rarely cried and Sherlock had been surprised that he’d done so at the pub. He knew he wasn’t good at picking emotions apart so it wasn’t obvious to him _why_ but the meeting must have been important enough to Jim, and the absolute rejection without preamble must have been devastating. 

Jim had been silent for a lot of the afternoon but once he’d started making dinner, he’d become more relaxed and seemed to return to normal. Cooking was something that Jim enjoyed although the reason saddened Sherlock. His family had been so poor that after his mother had died and his stepfather refused to feed him, Jim had taken to stealing what he could or obtaining it by worse means. Jim’s reasoning for learning to cook was that since he had to go through so much trouble to procure it, he might as well cook it properly and enjoy it.

“What are you making?” Sherlock asked. It did please him to no end that James Moriarty, the most feared criminal mastermind in all of England, Europe, and, most likely the world, cooked _for him_.

“Mamo’s Irish stew,” Jim answered. “Everyone who’s Irish can make a good stew, but Mamo’s was unbelievable and very distinctive. I found her recipe after she passed and I’ve made it a few times.” He turned and smirked at Sherlock. “I’m not a TLC person so that’s going to be lacking. She would put a lot of that in there.”

“You could make your own version,” Sherlock suggested. “Consulting Criminal Irish Stew.” Jim rolled his eyes. “Not Murderous Irish Stew.” Sherlock stared pointedly at Jim. “Because you’re not doing _that_ anymore.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “And you’d have to wonder if I weren’t just trying to get rid of some evidence.” Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. “The packages of mutton from the butcher are in the trash. You can double check if you’d like.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I know what mutton tastes like so I’d know if it were something else.”

“A lot of people use lamb nowadays,” Jim related, changing the subject slightly. “It tastes better they say but, to me, it’s just different and not right. Too fancy.”

Sherlock nodded. “What was your grandmother’s secret?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Rosemary,” Jim said and held up a huge bunch of the herb. “She had this big rosemary plant that lived outside in the summer and somehow she didn’t kill it when she brought it inside for winter. She put rosemary in everything.” Sherlock seemed skeptical. “She used to make a chocolate rosemary cake that was to die for whenever there was enough money leftover for a little chocolate.” He frowned pensively. “I haven’t found that recipe yet. It’s probably tucked away in one of her books somewhere.”

“Maybe you could try to recreate it,” Sherlock suggested. “I’d like to try it. And I bet Mycroft would love it; we know how he is with cake, or any dessert, really.”

“I’d make it for him after I found a way to disguise the cyanide,” Jim teased but Sherlock sighed. He’d been trying for a few months to get Jim and Mycroft to reconcile. Mycroft was more amenable but Jim was the one who had been _tortured_ by Mycroft so it was difficult to push his lover on the subject. Oddly, he felt that Jim and Mycroft were perfectly suited as brothers and would greatly enjoy each other’s company.

“Don’t worry, love,” Jim said as he put the lid on the pot. “As is, I’m not going to kill Mycroft.” Sherlock smiled. Jim had seemingly read his mind once more. “I’ve gotten over it enough to not want to kill him.” He walked over and ran a hand through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock purred. “It’ll be done in an hour.”

“Help me with this case.” Sherlock pulled Jim into his lap. “It’s one of Mycroft’s but it’s really interesting and I don’t want to do it on point.” That was a bit of a lie. It was an interesting case and Mycroft had purposefully sent it over because Sherlock had mentioned that Jim was sad and needed a distraction.

“Why should I help the Iceman?” Jim grumbled but made himself comfortable, wiggling a little. “But I suppose he does get some interesting cases that aren’t me…”

*~*~*

It had taken Sherlock and Jim almost the entire hour that dinner was cooking to solve the case, and by then Jim’s spirits were completely back to normal. He turned off the heat and then put some sourdough bread in the oven to heat. Sherlock was hungry. While food didn’t usually raise his interest very much, when Jim cooked it was a different story. There was _something_ about food prepared by his lover. He was setting the table and Jim was investigating the contents of the refrigerator to see if they could make a salad when the doorbell rang.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Jim asked.

“Noooo…” Sherlock set the silverware down and walked towards the door. “I’ll get it.” He opened the door and there stood Robert Patrick Ó Muircheartaigh holding a festive paper wine bag. Sherlock went to slam the door but the man blocked it with his foot.

“Good evening,” Robert said. “May I come in?”

“Step across the doorway and you’re dead,” Jim growled. He was pointing a gun at Robert.

“Please don’t shoot me,” Robert said and slowly lifted both hands up a little and away from his body. “I’ve come to apologize, explain, and I’ve brought some wine.”

Sherlock grinned maniacally and grabbed the bag from Robert. “All clear, Jim!”

Jim shook his head but kept the gun trained on Robert. He nodded towards the kitchen table. “Sit,” he ordered. “This better not be a waste of my time because I’ve wasted enough time on you already and I didn’t enjoy it.” He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers and leaned back against the counter.

Sherlock sat down across from Robert and glared at the man. “How did you find us here?” he asked.

“Your brother gave me the address,” Robert answered. Jim growled and glared accusingly at Sherlock. “But I already knew where this house was,” Robert continued. “I’ve been here before.” He closed his eyes for a moment as though remembering. “There was a flower garden out in the back with lots of roses and violets. The front had a mix of various plants and trinkets to make it look like a fairy garden. There were a lot of herbs as well because Meg’s mother liked to cook.”

Jim gasped at mention of his mother’s name. “I only came here a few times but it was so different and so charming… that I remember it well,” Robert continued. “There were a few books, not many, and a great ornate bible. There were lots of vases because Meg loved flowers. She’d collect them from the roadsides and make the prettiest arrangements.” He smiled sadly. “She’d fill all the vases she could find at the estate too. Flowers everywhere. That’s one of the things that made me notice her.” He smiled. “Is the one I gave her for Christmas still here? It was Waterford crystal and had snowflakes etched in it.”

Jim shook his head and felt tears well up. As a child, he’d remembered seeing all the empty vases and wondering why they were never filled. “Yeah, it’s on a shelf in the living room. I wondered why Mamo had something that fancy and never sold it. After I was born, Mam never had time for vases or flowers.”

“I never knew about you,” Robert admitted. “Or any of the others. I found out only recently. Mr. Cole-Saunders, the head of the household, never informed me or my family of any of it. Or maybe he informed my parents and they tacitly approved of his actions. I don’t know.”

“You expect us to believe that bunch of bollocks?” Sherlock snapped. “What kind of idiots do you take us for?”

“If anyone is an idiot, it’s me.” Robert looked about the kitchen. “I never questioned things. I lived a life of privilege and believed my only duty was to serve my country to the best of my abilities while all the mundane little details, aspects, day-to-day workings, that all was left to the staff. It was not something I even knew existed.”

“Pathetic,” Jim snorted.

“Yes, but that’s how things were always done,” Robert said. “Generation after generation. It was never really questioned. It’s a part of how we lived.”

“What changed?” Sherlock prompted.

“When Mr. Cole-Saunders passed, a new one was sent-”

“That’s ridiculous. You don’t even hire your own staff?” Jim interrupted incredulously.

“I wouldn’t even know how to go about interviewing someone,” Robert stated. “Well, Ms. Collins, our new head of household started finding discrepancies and insisted that I look into them. She said it was my responsibility. I resisted at first because that’s just not what I knew, what I understood, if that makes any sense.” Jim snorted and shook his head. “I’ve been learning and we’ve uncovered an enormous number of mistakes, errors, discrepancies, or purposeful thievery _everywhere_.”

“Serves you right,” Jim quipped. 

“I’m slowly sorting through it all but with my work taking most of my time, it’s slow going.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Jim asked. He’d known he should have offered sooner but he didn’t feel inclined to be polite.

“Water, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Jim nodded and went to the cupboard to retrieve glasses. “No problem.”

“You know, that’s all fine and dandy but that doesn’t explain why you were immitigably rude to us,” Sherlock said coldly. “Especially after a. we hadn’t even uttered one word to you and b. my brother, Mycroft Holmes, your respected equivalent, made the appointment and that would imply, to any even minutely logical person, that he vouched for us. You had no excuse to treat us that way except for the fact that: You. Are. A. Pebble-dashed. Swamp. Monkey.” Jim snickered as he set a glass of water in front of both Sherlock and Robert. 

“I read your latest blog,” Robert stated flatly and rather unamusedly. “Rather colorful if I must say.” Sherlock grinned proudly.

Taking a deep breath, Robert picked up the glass of water, took a sip, and stared at it as he set it down. “Three months ago, my wife and two daughters and my brother and his family were driving to Galway to visit my sister-in-law’s family. They were struck by a drunk driver. No one survived.” He paused for a moment and took another sip of water. “I have no family left alive and it was devastating.” Both Sherlock and Jim remained silent. 

“It was then that the old cook, Mavis, she knew everyone, mentioned that there might be some children I didn’t know about. Ms. Collins and I poured over all the records to see what we could find but we didn’t get far. Records were illegible, altered, falsified, shoddy, missing. We found nothing so I started a discreet inquiry at work.”

“if your office leaks like Mycroft’s…” Sherlock said.

“Sieve. I can get anything out of Mycroft’s office,” Jim said smugly.

“For the past two weeks, I’ve been dealing with phone calls and visits from ne’er-do-wells claiming to be family, sometimes two a day. When I saw you…” Robert looked at Jim. “Even though I knew Mycroft Holmes had made the appointment, part of me felt it was just another scam. I snapped. I just stopped thinking and reacted… badly..”

“That’s no excuse,” Jim growled. While he did understand the man’s words and perhaps felt sorry for him, his anger was boiling up. 

“It’s not. That was my explanation,” Robert said. “I came here to apologize. There simply was no excuse for my behavior. It was unprofessional, rude, and… and unkind, and you certainly didn’t deserve that. I _am_ sorry.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to accept your apology,” Jim said. “I’m prepared to destroy your life because no one talks to me like that.” His face turned to a sneer. “ _Two-bit criminal_. Really?”

“Mycroft brought me up to speed as to who you are and your _achievements_.”

“You deserve to suffer.”

Robert smiled wanly. “I don’t know what to say to that. Six months ago, I would have laughed and said to give it your best shot. Now, well, it’s obvious that my naivete and obliviousness have caused problems, some of a more serious or severe nature.”

“She was fourteen when she had me,” Jim said bitterly. “ _Fourteen_.” 

Robert cringed and exhaled slowly. “I never meant for that to happen. Everyone was supposed to be sixteen. I know it’s still my fault and my responsibility. It shouldn’t have happened. I would not have...”

“She was paid to abort,” Jim growled. “She was fired. What did you think? You tell me _what exactly_ a fourteen year old from a family with _nothing_ was supposed to do in those circumstances. 

Robert sighed. “Now, after all these years, I can begin to imagine the hardships. I was unaware of all that transpired. All I was told was that she had left. I was sorry to hear that she left but I was in school and only home on weekends. There was nothing to raise my suspicions.”

“You are completely and utterly oblivious,” Jim growled. “And it led to her death.” Surprise showed on Robert’s face. “Yes, she’s dead. She was ostracized by pretty much _everyone_ and there was no way she could get a job. Fell into drugs, prostitution, alcohol, and abusive relationships because you couldn’t be arsed to care for anything beyond yourself and your next fuck.”

“I cared and still care about a great many of things,” Robert stated with sadness tinging his voice. “But, yes, you’re right. My negligence led to unimaginable horrors. I’m sorry to hear... I don’t know, how do I even say it without seeming callous. I’m sorry for what happened to her, and to you.” He took another sip of water. “I’m slowly trying to right the wrongs.”

Jim turned away and stared out the kitchen window. He didn’t know what to say. Robert’s explanation made sense but it didn’t mitigate what he and his mother and grandmother had lived through. It left him feeling empty and sad. “Would you like some supper?” he asked seemingly out of the blue. It was really the only thing he could think to say.

Robert smiled. “Thank you, that would be lovely. I never liked eating alone.” He smiled. “Your grandmum made incredible stews. There was one with chicken and tomatoes that would knock anyone out cold and her Irish stew was second to none.”

“I made the Irish stew tonight,” Jim said and started making three portions. “It’s not quite right but close enough.”

“Do you like to cook?” 

“I do.” JIm pulled the bread from the oven and cut a few slices.

“And he’s superb at it,” Sherlock said. “I don’t like to eat in general but I’ll eat anything Jim makes. Do you have the tomato and chicken stew recipe, love?”

“No,” Jim answered. “I’m sure it’s somewhere. Mamo kept everything. I just haven’t found it yet.” He brought three portions and spoons over to the table and they sat mostly in silence except for Sherlock’s periodic notations and deductions and Robert’s commentary on them. When they finished, Jim quickly cleared the bowls. It gave him something to do to keep from focusing on Robert and being the object of his focus. 

Sherlock, who usually helped, stayed seated that night and stared at Robert pensively. “So,” Sherlock stated almost too emphatically. “Where does this leave us?” Jim shrugged.

Robert pulled out several papers from the inner pocket of his jacket. “I have the paperwork if you want to get genetically tested.” He slid the papers towards Sherlock in lieu of Jim. 

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Jim said from the kitchen but walked toward them carrying a dishtowel. “I’m not sure I care whether I’m related to you or not.”

“I understand that,” Robert said.

“It would be good medical information to have regardless of whether you do anything else with it,” Sherlock interjected. “I mean if you end up giving him a Semtex suppository, then you’ll know whether to stake a claim to his estate or not.” Sherlock smiled wickedly first at Jim and then at Robert, who suddenly seemed disconcerted.

“Not helpful, Sherl,” Jim grumbled and then turned to Robert. “Leave it; I’ll think about it. No guarantees one way or another.”

“Or about the Semtex,” Sherlock added. Robert smiled wanly.

“No, if I decide to destroy you,” Jim said coolly. “It won’t be with death. I’d make you suffer for all the suffering you indirectly caused.” He paused and tipped his head to study Robert. “But I don’t really need to, do I?” Robert shook his head. “Because you _are_ suffering. You’ve figured it out and every day is torture enough.” 

Robert looked away. “When I was younger, I never appreciated what I had, my family, all the people. I took everything and everyone for granted and now it’s all gone. When I go home, the emptiness and the silence are suffocating. At work, everything has become intolerable, painful, and meaningless. The only bits of joy I have is when Ms. Collins and I manage to untangle or fix something of the mess.”

Jim smiled and Sherlock chuckled which caused Robert to look at them questioningly. “Jim fixes things,” Sherlock explained. “His tag line is ‘Please, Jim, will you fix it for me?’ and he’s rather good at it.”

“Much to your brother’s dismay, I’ve heard that,” Robert said but then looked down. “I should probably head out. I’ve already taken up plenty of your time and you’ve been gracious hosts. My card with all my numbers is in with the papers. Call me if….” He trailed off as if not knowing how to finish.

“I’ll think about it,” Jim said. “All of it.” Sherlock rose from his seat and pulled Jim into an embrace. Robert nodded and left quietly.

“I should have shot him,” Jim grumbled somewhat playfully into Sherlock’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be on holiday until the end of August. I'll keep writing but there probably will be breaks in posting depending on when I have internet. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	18. Borgias Pearl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sets out to solve the case of the Borgias Pearl.

**Borgias Pearl**

“So… tell me exactly what happened, Mycroft,” Sherlock said with even more of a disinterested tone of voice than he usually had when speaking to his brother about government cases. “I have no idea why I’m helping you with this.”

“You know why,” Mycroft replied dryly. 

“Your people are incompetent.” He lifted his feet and rested them on Mycroft’s mahogany coffee table.

“England is not paying you to put your feet on government property,” Mycroft retorted. “And yes, even though they’re a bit better than the rest, _my people_ , are still woefully incompetent, as you say, which is why I’ve repeatedly asked you to solve this case, although I’m curious, if I may ask, why you finally deigned to involve yourself.”

“Bored,” Sherlock answered flatly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Bored,” Sherlock repeated. “That’s really the only reason to ever work any of your cases.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You’re in a fine mood this morning and please remove your feet from the table.”

“I’m here and bored, Mycroft, what do you expect?”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and then leaned over his desk to hand Sherlock a stick drive. “All the information is there.”

“Summary?”

“Intelligence determined that the pearl was in Russia. After its theft ten years ago, an old Russian noble family somehow ended up with it.” Mycroft coughed. “The bloody thing has been nothing but trouble to whoever owns it since they found it. August 11, 1492, if you care. The British ambassador to Georgia was able to secure it from the family and arrange for secure transport to England.”

“Secure?” Sherlock snorted.

“Exactly.” Mycroft shook his head. “The ambassador insisted on seeing it and he supposedly did but it and the secure courier vanished before they made it out of Georgia. Possibly never made it out of T’Bilisi. Nothing was ever found. The ambassador may be missing as well. He retired soon after and hasn’t been heard from for quite a while. But that’s another case, should you manage to solve this one.”

“And all the information that you have is on the drive?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “All the official information that we have is on that drive and one more piece to the puzzle.” Sherlock looked at him questioningly. “When we held Moriarty, much to my surprise, the subject came up. You have copies of the transcripts that are pertinent.”

“And?”

“He said that he had managed to procure it and had left it with you.”

“Me? That’s ridiculous, Mycroft.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said. “He said he was giving it to you for safe-keeping and as an engagement present.”

“An engagement present?” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Why was I never informed of this?” He shook his head. James Moriarty had never wanted to do anything but kill him. No, that was wrong. He’d flirted, called me sexy, acted adorably and obviously gay, given me brilliant puzzles, been a fan. Had that been affection? Or love, by his definition? Sherlock fell into his mind palace and analyzed each and every second of each and every interaction he’d had with James Moriarty. The man had been impossible to read.

Had he loved me? Had all our games also been a courtship? Things had changed after Mycroft had picked up Jim. Sherlock had insisted on it because Jim had threatened John and he’d do anything to protect John. He saw a chessboard and analyzed the moving pieces but that provided no answers. He saw himself holding a deck of cards. Poker. Jim in his straightjacket was somehow his opponent. He couldn’t guess Jim’s next move but Jim couldn’t guess his. Jim was laughing and singing. He had all the cards in his hands and they were laughing at him. They were all Jim’s friends. Except the Jack of Hearts. It looked like John. Jim was trying to burn that card.

Sherlock froze them all in his mind and turned them into glass before shattering them into glass shards and staring at them for a long time, as though they could provide an answer. He’d never had any friends. He’d always treated everyone coldly, the way Mycroft had advised. There was no way that Jim could have known that John was important, that threatening John would be different. John had simply been the easiest pawn for Jim to reach. He had been a way to get close to Sherlock, to make the game more personal and interesting. Would Jim really have hurt John? John had been traumatized but neither of them had really cared about any of the other “pawns” before. 

He’d thrown Mycroft at Jim for that. Mycroft had interrogated Jim. In his mind he returned to Serbia and in one instant, relived all the horrific tortures that he had endured. What had Mycroft done to James Moriarty? Sherlock didn’t really know. Would Mycroft have… He felt a cloth over his face and water and he couldn’t breathe. He gasped for air and was jolted out of his mind palace.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked without looking up from his computer. Sherlock made a gurgling sound and then swallowed but didn’t answer. “I’ll get some tea.” Mycroft picked up his phone and sent a text.

Sherlock looked at his phone. It was almost an hour later. Where had the time gone? He stared at Mycroft: so placid, so blank, so seemingly harmless, yet beneath that, the brilliant mind and a cunning, cruel, and deadly adversary. “What did you do to Moriarty?”

“Pardon?” Mycroft looked up at that.

“You kidnapped John but only scared the daylights out of him. What did you do to Jim Moriarty?”

“When?” the question was stated flatly and that made Sherlock feel uncomfortable.

“After the pool, before the rooftop, before things got ugly,” Sherlock said tersely.

“He was interrogated, Sherlock,” Mycroft said slowly as though he were talking to a small child. “You know we needed the information on the terrorists and we asked him for it. We also encouraged him to stay away from Doctor John Watson, at your behest.”

Sherlock growled. “What does that mean? Exactly. What did you do?”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why is this important now?”

“Mycroft!”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft replied and sighed. “The majority of the interrogation did not happen. What little that was documented is rather vague and… classified.”

“I see,” Sherlock said numbly. Mycroft’s non-answer had told him more than he’d wanted to know. “Soooo… what else is in the file that pertains to this?”

“He said that when you found it, you two could get married,” Mycroft sneered. “Insane.”

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed although he was secretly pleased. He could never admit to Mycroft or anyone else how he’d felt about Jim Moriarty despite everything that they’d been through but those words gave him hope that perhaps his nemesis, his equal, his obsession, his… well, he couldn’t quite bring himself to use the L-word, was not only still alive but might be interested in him as well. “Well, give me a few hours. I’ll see what I can do.”

*~*~*

“Tea?” John asked and set a cup on the table next to Sherlock.

“Mmmm…” Sherlock muttered then shook his head. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Does that one actually have you stumped?” Sherlock didn’t bother to answer. He simply looked up at John as though the man had said something unfathomable and then went back to staring at his computer. “Right, then. I’ll just be here with the paper, reading the paper, you know, looking at the ads. Let me know when we have to go chasing down some hooligan or breaking into some super secret vault.”

Sherlock snorted but his lips turned up slightly. He was frustrated. He’d reviewed all the information provided by Mycroft plus researched all the sordid and scandalous history of the Borgias and still felt as though he was missing one critical piece of information that would bring it all together because, at the moment, it felt as though he had nothing, absolutely nothing, that was a solid lead.

“Want to tell me what you’ve got?” John asked after a few minutes. He was obviously bored.

“Yes! Maybe explaining it to you will help me see some little tidbit that I’m missing.” Sherlock then spent a solid forty-five minutes explaining the intricate history of the House of Borgia, an Italo-Spanish family that rose to prominence during the Renaissance, during which time the pearl first appeared. John had to get up and make tea twice in order to stay focused.

Sherlock then spent another twenty minutes explaining how the pearl was found in Russia and acquired by the British ambassador to Georgia followed by another twenty minute elaboration on how it was stolen once more.

“Here’s some dinner, Sherlock,” John said and set a plate with a sandwich and crisps next to Sherlock.

“Oh, when did you make that?” Sherlock shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts and focused on John.

“Somewhere between the Kremlin and the Russian socialite with the emerald eyes and the amethyst necklace.,” John said and then sat down. “That’s… eh, a lot of information to process.”

“I don’t really think the answer is there,” Sherlock said. 

John took a bite of his sandwich. “And Mycroft thinks Moriarty somehow has the thing?”

“Yes.” 

“Does your brother spend his free time coming up with conspiracy theories?”

“Probably.” Sherlock chuckled. “But in the transcripts, supposedly original and not redacted, of a segment of his interrogation, Moriarty specifically says, brings up actually, that he has or had the pearl and gave it to me as an engagement present.”

“Right,” John said flatly. “I’d chalk that up to… oh, say… Mycroft’s stellar interrogation techniques.”

“I don’t want to talk about those,” Sherlock said quietly. “Serbia…”

“Sorry.” John looked away. Serbia, as well as Sherlock’s two year absence, were not easy topics to discuss.

“Moving on,” Sherlock said still somewhat quietly. “So, Moriarty mentions it twice. The first time that he had it and gave it to me. The second time makes even less sense. It’s that it’s his engagement present to me since we met in childhood, which we technically didn’t, and that it’s all in my head.”

“I think it’s all in _his_ head,” John said wryly. “It started there, maybe Mycroft helped it along, but it’s all just in his head. Not in yours.”

“Here’s a bit of the last section,” Sherlock said and started reading.

 

MH: That’s impossible. Tell me about the pearl.  
JM: Well, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. You should try it. Might do you some good.  
MH: You’re insane. Tell me where the pearl is. It’ll be a good start towards getting you some rewards and bettering your current situation.  
JM: Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft, we’re all mad here. And I already told you: I gave the pearl to Sherlock. It’s our engagement present. You know, childhood romance. Started after a murder. We’re made for each other.  
MH: Where is the pearl?  
JM: Little Sherlock has it.  
MH: That makes no sense. Sherlock does not have the pearl. Explain yourself.  
JM: I'm afraid I can't explain myself, Mycroft. Because I am not myself, you see?”  
MH: Nonsense. If Sherlock had the pearl, he’d give it to me. Where is it?  
JM: At least, it’s uncommon nonsense.  
MH: Where is the pearl?  
JM: It’s in little Sherlock’s head.  
MH: It is not.  
JM: Is it tea time, Mycroft?

 

“And it rather devolves from there,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“He’s insane.” John got up. “I think we need something stronger in our tea to deal with this.”

Sherlock nodded and smiled wanly. “He was under interrogation. Mycroft’s boys are… competent.” He paused and tried not to think of what Jim had been put through. That was nearly impossible since his return. He didn’t think John really understood even though he’d been to war. “I don’t know what to make of this. With Moriarty, the answer is usually _right there_. He just phrases things in such a way that ordinary people don’t get it.”

John snorted. “I didn’t even get what he was saying half the time.”

“He was quoting _Alice in Wonderland_ ,” Sherlock explained. “One of my favorite books. I’m actually not surprised that it’s one of his. Or, at least, that he can quote it.”

“You’re both mad as hatters.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Why, thank you, John, but that doesn’t help in solving this. Perhaps I shouldn’t have bothered with Mycroft’s wild goose chase.” Sherlock smiled. He was actually pleased that he’d taken the case. The thought that Jim Moriarty had staged this so that they could get married made him feel… something. Something nice.

“I don’t think you should bother with anything that has to do with Moriarty,” John stated and took a sip of his tea. “He’s come to a sticky end and the rest is nonsense. He’s not back. He’s not anything but dead.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Jim Moriarty couldn’t be dead. Jim Moriarty had saved him from a suicide mission in Eastern Europe. Jim Moriarty had planned on their getting married. While that was before Mycroft, Sherlock refused to believe that it could all end in naught.

“You’re not still in love with him?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. Sometimes John surprised him with an observation that was right on the mark about something that wasn’t obvious. He stared at John for longer than he probably should have and then shrugged. “As you said, it’s nonsense and he’s come to a sticky end. We just have to find the pearl.”

“And this nonsense about the pearl is utter rubbish.” John shook his head. “The location of that blasted pearl isn’t in your thick skull and you two brilliant geniuses haven’t been destined for love since childhood.” Sherlock’s eyes widened even more. “Leave this one be, Sherlock. Or find the real answer. I’m going to Tesco’s. Do we need anything else besides milk?”

“Ehhhh… some biscuits,” Sherlock muttered absentmindedly and more to hurry John along. The answer had come to him. Could it have been that obvious? He sunk into his mind palace and reviewed all the information while trying to discern from audible cues when John left. He heard John speaking but didn’t bother to process the words. Could the answer have been that ridiculously obvious?! Hiding in plain sight, right underneath everyone’s nose. Right underneath _his_ nose. It was classic Moriarty.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked about. He wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been in his mind palace but it hadn’t been too long. It was quiet. “John?” he called out. There was no reply. “Good. Excellent.” He rose and walked over to the mantel. Staring at him was his skull. Billy. His childhood nickname. His parents had used that for him until secondary school when he’d insisted on Sherlock. 

He picked up the skull and then grabbed his flashlight. Peering inside, he immediately noticed the cranial length was shortened. He set the flashlight down, found a pick scoop, and poked at the inside of the skull. It was soft. Clay. He poked around some more and felt something hard. Sherlock smirked. It was either some Semtex or the pearl. Semtex would be entertaining but traumatic. The pearl…

Sherlock scraped away an entire section that had been pasted inside the skull then brushed away all the extra clay to reveal a fat paper packet wrapped in plastic. Impatiently, Sherlock tore away the wrappings to reveal a beautiful black pearl with incredible luster, a deep black color, no defects visible to the naked eye, and a fiery orient. Sherlock inhaled sharply. It was stunning. Not that he frequently handled pearls or considered himself a connoisseur, but this pearl’s beauty and value was evident to a novice.

He put the pearl in his pocket and unwrapped the small piece of paper that had surrounded it. There was a handwritten phone number. “John? Tea?” he called out but then remembered that John usually had issues at Tesco’s and might be longer than expected. Instead he sat down and pondered the myriad of questions and answers he wanted to text. Sherlock wanted his first communication to be perfect. And then out of the blue, he chuckled. What if Jim were truly long dead and that number had been reassigned. It certainly was a possibility that he could end up texting someone’s grandmother. Sherlock decided not to dwell on it. He organized his thoughts and prioritized.

Eventually John returned and went on about something which Sherlock mostly ignored except the bit about making tea. He rose and moved to the kitchen table. John set a cup of tea in front of him. “Did you get it figured out?” John asked and also sat down.

“Yes, quite; just determining my next move.”

“Do you know where the pearl is?”

Sherlock smiled and pulled the pearl out of his pocket and handed it to John, who proceeded to stare at it dumbfounded. “I did have it,” Sherlock said quietly. “Moriarty hid it in a special place.”

“Did you call Mycroft?”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow and took the pearl back from John. “Why, no. It’s my engagement present.”

“But…”

“It’ll be fine, John.” They finished their tea in silence although Sherlock never stopped thinking and then John went to prepare for his date with Janet, Laura, Marie-Felice, or was it, Kirsten? Probably Kirsten. Sherlock actually liked that one. Slowly he pulled out his phone and texted that the number from that had been included with the pearl. Out of so many, too many, things to say, he’d opted for what he felt were the three most important.

_Did you miss me_?  
Yes. -SH

_About what Mycroft did, I didn’t know_.  
I’m sorry. -SH

_Will you marry me_?  
Yes. -SH

And he waited for a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one took me a long time to write (and rewrite). I hope you enjoyed it. I'm still on holiday so updates will continue to be sporadic.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	19. Massage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Married life for James and William Murtagh continues. William's musical career is back on track and James gives him a massage. Sebastian is as sassy as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sequel to Day 13: Amnesia. It loses something if you haven't read that one first. At some point, there will be a part 3, not sure when though.  
> Thank you for reading.

**Massage**

“That was fantastic, love!” Jim gushed as, arm-in-arm, they entered their flat with Sebastian behind them. William beamed proudly. That evening he’d had his first violin solo at Trinity with their symphony orchestra. It had been about six months since Jim had rescued him from his overdose and he felt that his life had truly turned itself around even though none of his memories had returned. Despite it having been excruciatingly painful on both the physical and emotional levels, Jim had gotten him through withdrawal and off of drugs without rehab. His husband had claimed that William hated rehab because his brother had forced it on him and William believed that. That was one of the many things that _felt right_.

Jim had somewhat miraculously procured William’s violin from wherever he’d lost it in London and he’d been overjoyed. The instrument slid under his chin perfectly, naturally, and the bow in his hand felt like freedom and joy. Playing his violin had given William a new sense of purpose and meaning even though he felt that some piece, other than the memories, was still missing. Jim had also managed to find some of the sheet music that he’d also lost in London and that had been bliss. William played his violin constantly and nothing brought him more satisfaction than seeing his husband’s contented smile when he played. Between the two of them, they’d also tried to determine which pieces he’d known by memory. That endeavor had proven a bit more difficult but they kept trying.

“Do either of you two want a snack?” Sebastian asked after locking the door. “I’m a bit hungry and if Jim could make us some biscuits, that would be top of the line.” 

William chuckled and shook his head. “I’m not sure I can eat. I’m still tense from the performance.” He still didn’t quite understand why Jim’s bodyguard continued to live with them even though Jim no longer needed him. Jim had explained that his previous consulting work had been dangerous and that he and Sebastian had become friends. William wasn’t convinced about the former, Jim was so mild-mannered after all, but he could certainly believe the latter.

“I could shoot you, Sebastian,” Jim countered sweetly but then turned to William. “Would you like a massage, love?” William smiled knowingly. James’s massages were second to none.

“Or _brownies_ ,” Sebastian continued unperturbed. “Brownies are better than shooting me. Brownies and a massage! Sign me up! Oh, and William said he wanted brownies yesterday!” William chuckled. Sebastian was competent, had a fantastic sense of humor, and somehow humored both him and James when they were having what he affectionately called ‘challenging moments’. William adored Sebastian although occasionally he wondered if the two of them had a history before him. 

“No! No biscuits, no brownies, massage for _William_ , yes,” Jim said. “We had a large dinner before William’s performance and I’m not feeling all that hungry.” William did agree with that although a bit of something sweet did also sound rather nice. Jim continued, “I think my beloved deserves a luxurious and sensual massage and then he needs to rest.”

Sebastian’s face fell. “Okay.” He pouted for a moment, which made William snicker, but then his expression brightened. “I’ll just run to the store down the street and get myself a pint. Just a little treat, just for me. I’m craving that cherry bombshell blast I tried last week.”

Jim’s eyes widened and then he eyed Sebastian mischievously. “I’ll take a pint of cheesecake _brownie_.” Sebastian glared at him with mock disgust. “Pretty please. And maybe some whipped cream too. William might want a little more than a massage tonight.” William felt his cheeks warming. For all that James was a very proper professor, he had a wild and naughty side that William adored even though it embarrassed him sometimes.

“Fine,” Sebastian grumbled. “But I am _not_ cooking breakfast tomorrow. William, would you like a pint of frozen deliciousness?”

“Chocolate mint for me, please,” William said.

“Will do!” Sebastian waved and walked toward the door. “Although I might have to go to the pub and get a different kind of pint first. Happy massage!” 

William locked the door after Sebastian and then let James lure him into the bedroom. 

*~*~*

William didn’t want to open his eyes. James’s hands were absolute magic and they made him feel so good. His fingers on his back, his legs, his arms, everywhere made him feel loved, cherished, and adored. William craved that. Sometimes, he felt like a love-starved abandoned puppy, desperately in need of affection and his husband never denied or questioned him. James seemed to know exactly what he needed and gave to him freely. 

Sometimes William wondered if he’d always been like this or it was the loss of his memories. Other times he wondered how he could ever deserve such a wonderful and loving husband and why James stayed with him. From what he’d gathered, and it felt right, his brother was controlling to the point of abusive; his parents were distant to the point of neglect; his brilliance and creativity had been oppressed and suppressed; and he’d repeatedly fallen into drugs. Why would a sane person stay with _him_? Sometimes he wondered if losing his memories hadn’t been the best thing that had happened to him… besides James.

“Turn around, love,” Jim murmured and William slowly complied. He smiled at his husband as James began working on the front of his shoulders. William melted under those amazing fingers. The touches became more erotic and William’s relaxed bliss became suffused with desire. He lifted his hands and started reciprocating. Soon they were making slow, sensual love and William never felt more complete than he did in his husband’s arms.

Finally, when he could no longer keep his eyes open, William curled around James and whispered into the dark brown hair. “I love you.”

“I love _you_ , beloved,” Jim replied and held William tightly. “More than you could ever know…”

*~*~*

Jim roused first, slowly extricated himself from the tangle of limbs that they’d become overnight, and made his way to the kitchen. He opened the freezer and noted at least two pints of each of the requested flavors. Smiling, he sent silent thanks to Sebastian, pulled out a pint of cheesecake brownie and then set about making making breakfast. He opted for William’s favorite: Dubliner cheese, bacon, and Guinness caramelized onion quiche and Sebastian’s favorite: Irish potato cakes. He smirked at the thought that James Moriarty, consulting criminal, enjoyed doing little things, like preparing breakfast, for the other two. 

As soon as he put the quiche in the oven, his phone beeped indicating a text on his private line. He rolled his eyes but reached for his cell. James's blood froze at the sight of the message and he almost dropped the phone

Lovely performance at Trinity last night by your husband, Professor O'Murtagh. -MH


	20. AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A band of hardened adventurers sets off on a quest to destroy a necromancer that is plaguing the village of Inchestuir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from holiday and will try to post more regularly. This was written during a long travel day mostly on an airplane, which probably explains where it came from. My editor is just as jet-lagged as I am... there may be typos.  
> It's a Dungeons & Dragons AU so the style is a bit different from all the other drabbles thus far. It may be a bit confusing if you're not familiar with the game although I tried to add extra details to make everything clear. (All magic spells are italicized.) This probably fulfills the Crack prompt as well.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**AU**

The Keep on the Hill

“Maybe we should vote on it?” Sebastian suggested as the merry band of hardened adventurers were led to the office of Lord Governor Mycroft of Holme, ruler of the village of Inchestuir. He adjusted the bow that was slung across his back just slightly. Making sure that his weapon was at the ready was a bit of a nervous habit for him. Sebastian had grown up on the outskirts of a far away village and had been the primary hunter there for several years before the village had been destroyed by a troll, now his sworn enemy. “Because I think it’s either a _really_ bad idea or I don’t have enough ale in me yet to be able to tolerate a visit to _his_ lordship. Or any lordship, for that matter.”

“Nonsense! _All_ of my ideas are brilliant!” James, the best dressed one of the group, stated. His elegant clothes hid his multiple knives, the thieves tools, and an obscene amount of secret pouches for all sorts of odds and ends that served the party well when they’d had to get out of complex or deadly situations. He was slender and graceful, which reflected his half-elven heritage. He occasionally passed himself off as a young lord to further his own ends. “This is quick work, with a nice purse, ten gold each but maybe I can get us a better reward, and we get to keep any spoils we find. It doesn’t get any better than that. _What_ could possibly go wrong?”

“Every time you say that,” John, the halfling, noted. “Something a bit not good happens. Or, Helm preserve us, it’s usually even worse than that, and I end up having to put your spleen back in, Jim, or keeping Mrs. Hudson from bleeding out. And I doubt his lordship will offer us second breakfast.” His breastplate and shield were emblazoned with the holy symbol of Helm the god of law, guardians, and protection.

Jim spun around and smirked. “Please, Johnny Boy, you already know that Mycroft of Holme only offers guests second breakfast when _they_ bring it and only if it’s not much to his liking so there’s some left.” 

Mrs. Hudson snorted. “Selfish bastard.” She wore full plate that had been burnished a rose color and carried a maul that was almost as big as she was.

“Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock said and then wiggled his fingers. His flowing purple robes always seemed to move preternaturally with a nonexistent breeze as he moved. Dancing lights in the shapes of scones, teacups, biscuits, and slices of mince apple pie appeared around John’s head. “Don’t doubt Jim. My beloved is always right. Plus, look, I mean we’re still alive so I don’t see a problem.” He then took Jim’s hand and kissed it. Jim gave him a pleased smile. 

“Aren’t they adorable?” Mrs. Hudson said and then eyed John. “You’ll be asking Helm to bless a wedding soon.” Jim giggled while Sebastian shook his head and John rolled his eyes.

“And if you’re hungry we can head toward the docks and get, not only second breakfast, but elevensies before we leave,” Sebastian added. “I’m sure visiting the lord governor will get me ready for a good row at the Winsome Wench and then I’ll need some fortifications before we set out.”

They were led into the Lord Governor’s office where Mycroft of Holme effusively welcomed them while eating a decadent piece of chocolate cake the likes of which none of the group had ever seen before. Between mouthfuls, he rather loquaciously and voluminously explained that the village had been plagued by undead ever since a wizard, Eknebeneus the Excelled, had moved into the abandoned haunted tower on the hill. After much arduous research which took him away from his very important minor government work, Lord Mycroft suspected that Eknebeneus the Excelled was, in truth, the feared necromancer, Magnussen the Dark, scourge of all the lands.

The Lord Governor was offering fifty gold in payment for the removal of the necromancer from his lands. Jim, now surreptitiously in possession of the Lord’s golden pocketwatch, eloquently attempted to negotiate their reward to double that amount or twenty gold apiece for the five of them. Eventually the governor agreed especially after it was noted that every other band of adventurers that had inquired, upon learning of the task, had made themselves more than scarce. The group agreed and the governor sent them on their way with an advance of five gold apiece.

*~*~*

After heading back into town for second breakfast and elevensies, John had noted that since the tower was only a half day’s travel from the village, it would be preferable to get lunch as well. The group concurred and John made sure to also pack himself a snack. He remembered his Mum’s advice: a well fed halfling doesn’t starve. He tried to live to that as best he could although the rest of the group was more laid back with eating. They seemed to prefer ridding the countryside of fell beasts, which, in and of itself, John rather enjoyed but mostly on a full stomach. 

Mrs Hudson joined him for all the meals. She mumbled something around her huge mouthful of shepard’s pie that she needed to keep her strength up, to perhaps wallop that Lord Governor Mycroft of Holme on the side of the head. She carried one of the party’s two magic items, the Maul of the Titans. John himself had the other magic item, the holy symbol on his shield allowed him to grant maximum healing when he used his curative spells.

Sherlock and Jim skipped all the meals before the party headed out. Sherlock procured an ungodly amount of bat guano so he could cast his favorite spell, _Fireball_ , a ridiculous number of times. Sherlock did love the flashy spells especially if flames and explosions were involved. Jim went with him; the two were virtually inseparable. They held hands, cuddled, kissed, and talked about things that the others didn’t really understand. Jim also managed to procure a golden bracelet, a blackened dagger that seemed too nice to be just a simple dagger, and a few silver rings as well as a fox scarf pin that he claimed suited him perfectly. Sherlock agreed and the two rejoined the group with a trail of small red hearts following Jim.

As they finished their preparations, Sebastian joined them. His quiver had been restocked; his boots were polished; and he looked ready to shoot anything. The rest of the group was not surprised that he actually hadn’t gone looking for trouble in a tavern but instead had scouted a significant portion of the path to the hill and reported that he’s only run across a hapless band of goblins that would pose neither them nor anyone else any further problems.

*~*~*

They left town early in the afternoon and wound their way through the woods towards the hill and the wizard’s tower. Sherlock postulated that if it was a decent wizard’s tower, he might wish to acquire it once the current inhabitant had been dispatched. Jim laughed but reminded him that he would still be under Lord Governor Mycroft of the Mighty Cake and his taxation system. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Mrs. Hudson suggested that if they found enough gold then Sherlock’s share should more than cover the taxes for a while. Jim muttered something in Sherlock’s ear about needing a new Lord Governor, which earned him a laugh from Mrs. Hudson and Sebastian and a glare from John.

They reached the three story tower by late afternoon. Sebastian did a quick reconnoiter and reported that the perimeter was surrounded by twenty zombie guards, one of whom looked like the female orc that had chased John about in the past town. John punched him. Mrs. Hudson volunteered a second. Sherlock volunteered a massive Fireball but Jim explained that said approach was a bit not subtle. They quietly made their way closer, with John at the ready. 

Suddenly Mrs. Hudson stepped on a pile of branches and fell into a pit. “Oh, bother! How inconsiderate!!” she yelled.

“So much for stealth,” Jim muttered.

“ _Fireball_?” Sherlock asked as the zombies started lurching towards them.

“No, Sherlock, that would alert any evil necromancer in that tower. Johnny Boy, go do your goody-goody business,” Jim said as Sebastian ducked into the woods for a clear line of sight and dragged Sherlock with him. Jim went to help Mrs. Hudson out of the pit. He preferred having the fighter available for combat.

The zombies charged them as fast as their undead bodies could carry them but John showed no fear. When they were about sixty feet away, he shouted, “By the light, justice, and power of Helm, I banish thee to your final resting place!” His shield glowed and brilliant golden light radiated outward. The closest eight zombies glowed for an instant and then turned to ash.

Sebastian shot two arrows into the one furthest away and the vile creature fell to the earth. Sherlock followed him by pointing a finger and cast _Magic Missile_. Three beams of light emitted from his pointer finger and burned into the next furthest zombie.

After pulling Mrs. Hudson out, Jim somehow vanished from sight. Mrs. Hudson charged the remaining undead. She swung at the first one and the maul thundered loudly. That zombie’s head flew towards the top of the tower. “Fore!” she yelled. She then shifted and struck the next approaching zombie first on its left and then, on the backswing, full on the back, thereby splintering it in many pieces.

Four zombies then surrounded Mrs. Hudson and four surrounded John, who had already drawn his bastard sword. Before they could do anything, Jim momentarily appeared near one at John’s flank and hamstrung him. The creature fell vomiting blood all over John. Jim quickly disappeared again. The remaining three attempted to club John. One strike bounced off his breastplate and another glanced off his shield. One strike caught him in the arm. “Ow!” John yelled. “That’ll bruise!” The zombies grunted. The four surrounding Mrs. Hudson managed to connect soundly with her platemail and leave her completely unaffected and perhaps feeling a bit jolly.

Keeping his shield up, John ran his sword across one zombie’s midsection. He could only use Helm’s power to affect undead twice in one day and he was saving it for something, perhaps, more dangerous. The injured zombie soon found itself with an arrow sticking out of its chest and fell to the ground as did the one next to him who momentarily looked about for where that arrow had come from. The remaining zombie was struck by three beams of light and fell as well. “Rethink your options!” John said firmly, although he knew undead couldn’t reason all that well. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move and guessed that it was Jim moving to help Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson was pondering which one to eliminate first. “I’ll call you Jack,” she said to one. “You’re Jill, since I do see the resemblance to that orc that was chasing our halfling. And you two can be Tom and Jerry!” As soon as she finished, she saw Jerry stumble and fall directly in Tom’s way. “Was that you, Jimmy dear?” she asked. “Good job!” She then swung the maul hard on Tom. The weapon thundered and obliterated the zombie. “I’m just on a roll. Perhaps I should make crumpets tonight.” She turned and struck Jack with her maul twice. He also dropped to the ground. 

Jill lunged at Mrs. Hudson but tripped over Tom’s corpse and fell. Mrs. Hudson jumped out of the way. The remaining zombie swung at John with enough momentum that, even though it struck the center of the breast plate, the blow resounded and John winced. An instant later an arrow felled that zombie and three beams of light killed the one on Mrs. Hudson. “Well, that’s all well and good,” John said.

“Excellent work, team,” Jim said. “Now let’s regroup over there where Seb and Sherlock were shooting. “No sense continuing to advertise our presence.” The party moved so that they were hidden behind some trees. “Well, we took care of the first line of defence,” Jim continued. “I see two ways of continuing.”

“We ‘Mrs. Hudson the door open’ and charge inside,” Sherlock suggested. “We’re good at that.

“Actually, first we need to fix Johnny,” Jim noted. “Are you going to cast a spell or want me to mix up some stinky poultice for you.”

“Spell,” John said formally. “Last time I reeked of cod and fermented onions for days.”

“It worked.” Jim pouted. “No one appreciates my creations.”

“That’s because you usually dabble in poisons, James,” John said. “I struggle to believe you when you use the word poultice or potion.”

“But it worked!” Jim grumbled as John cast _Cure Wounds_ on himself. “But as I was saying, we either Mrs. Hudson our way in or I’ll sneak ahead and see what I can find.”

“That way we strike the serpent’s head, not waste time with other things, and eliminate the necromancer,” Sherlock said.

Sebastian frowned. “I’m worried about Jim going in all by himself. That necromancer may already know something is up. We were pretty quiet but all his outside guards are gone. Someone’s going to notice.”

“Well, while Jim goes ahead, the rest of us can move closer and hide by the door,” John said.

“Just yell loudly, dear, and we’ll come charging in after you!” Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock walked around John and pulled Jim into his arms. He licked one pointed ear and then kissed his lover deeply. His arms tightened around Jim and he moaned into the kiss.

“If that’s for good luck,” Sebastian noted, “You’d better let him go so that luck can get started working. Otherwise, if you’re trying to keep him here, that might be working too but it’s not what we need.”

Jim broke the kiss. “Shut up, Sebastian.” He smiled at Sherlock and went ahead. The rest of the group followed at a distance and then hid close to the door. And waited.

*~*~*

And after they waited quite a long while, they started to worry. First Sherlock, then the others. Sherlock started pacing and John tapped his fingers lightly. Sebastian glared at them and signaled that they should try to remain silent. Sherlock pointed at the tower frantically but Sebastian gave him an ‘I know’ look so Sherlock went back to pacing and then started pouting.

Suddenly a loud explosion was heard and fire engulfed the top floor of the tower. “Jim!” Sherlock yelled and broke into a run immediately followed by the others. Mrs. Hudson hurled herself at the door and it splintered. She and John then plowed into the entryway. Seeing no one in that room they pushed open the two visible doors. One was the kitchen, the other a meeting room with stairs going up the side of the tower. “This way,” John shouted.

They raced up the stairs and found themselves in a parlor. There were several doors in this room. Suddenly the door on the left was flung open and Jim, holding a red silk pillow-sized bag, raced through it. He seemed a bit singed and was bleeding from a few cuts. “He’s up there!!”

“Charge!!” Mrs. Hudson yelled as she raced toward the stairs. “Let’s get him boys!! 

“Right behind you, Mrs. H!” John yelled and followed her. Sebastian was close behind John and Sherlock behind him. As the foursome raced up the stairs they noticed the remains of many skeletons lining the steps and the occasional gutted human guard.

“Jim was here!” Sherlock shouted happily to Sebastian who nodded. The other two paid no attention as they raced blindly up to the next level. Sherlock promised himself that he was going to _Fireball_ whoever had tried to incinerate his beloved. Sebastian was seven steps from the door when there was a loud ear-shattering thunderous boom and John and Mrs. Hudson flew back into him. Fortunately Sebastian braced and the three fell into a pile at the top of the stairs instead of falling down them.

Sherlock growled and launched a _Fireball_ into the room. He then tried to make his way around the pile of his party members but Sebastian grabbed his ankle. “Don’t go in there alone, doofus,” Sebastian hissed. “Obviously a spell-chucker. Wait for your meat shields.” As the three were getting ready a barrage of thorns struck them. Everyone was hit. John and Mrs. Hudson stood up.

“Take two, huh, Mrs. H!” John yelled and they charged into the room followed by Sherlock and Sebastian. The room was a very large laboratory with every imaginable piece of lab equipment available. Undead in various states of decomposition or unlife hung from meat hooks or floated in vats. In the center of a room stood a slender human male with silvered dark hair and black eyes reminiscent of death. He wore black silk flowing robes embroidered with arcane symbols in red, silver, and violet threads. Next to him was a giant that seemed to be constructed of dead and rotting flesh.

The undead creature lurched forward and because of its size, from ten feet away swung first one arm then another at Mrs. Hudson, who gasped and took a step back. “Fools,” the man said and laughed. “You’ve come to seek certain deaths at the hands of Magnussen the Dark? Well, you’ve found it.”

“That’s a flesh golem,” Sherlock yelled, having easily identified the construct and immediately brought up in his mind everything he knew about them. “Regular weapons are only partially effective but hit the thing with fire! Fire makes it clumsy.” With that he cast fireball so it would engulf both the necromancer and the golem but just narrowly miss Mrs. Hudson who scooted back just enough. The necromancer seemed unharmed by the attack but the golem couldn’t evade it and charred a bit.

“By the power of Helm!” John yelled and raised his shield. “I seek to destroy this injustice of life and bring light to darkness and death to undeath!” Golden light radiated from his shield and bathed the room in its glow. The golem grunted and some of the necromancer’s skin started to peel and ooze blood.

Sebastian had found a vantage point in a corner behind a shelf and fired three arrows at the necromancer. Magnussen staggered back but then pointed his finger at Sebastian and fired a _Lightning Bolt_ at him. Sebastian shuddered as the electricity coursed through him and he paled. “Surrender now and you can join my army,” Magnussen whispered sibilantly.

“Never, buttercup!” Mrs. Hudson shouted and swung her weapon with all her might. The maul thundered loudly and it’s magic crackled as it struck, surrounding the golem. Its chest seemed to cave inward but then popped right back out. She hit it again, this time in the head and the sound of its skull fracturing was heard second before its eyeballs flew out.

“Lights out, Mrs. Hudson!” Sebastian yelled.

“Such comedians,” Magnussen drawled and his tongue flicked out as though he were licking _something_. John shuddered at the sight. “I may have to create an undead troupe with what’s left of you.” He pointed his finger at Sebastian once more and another _Lightning Bolt_ hurled toward the ranger. Sebastian tried to get out of the way but about half of it caught him. His legs were singed and about half his torso.

The golem swung at Mrs. Hudson twice. She dodged the first blow but the second caught her squarely in the chest and the sounds of ribs cracking were heard. “Medic times two!” Sherlock yelled and this time cast _Wall of Fire_ around the golem with the flames radiating inward. “And cover me, I have to focus on this thing.”

“On it!” John yelled. He grabbed Mrs. Hudson and pulled her a few feet from the flames before casting _Cure Wounds_ at the highest level possible. She seemed to improve by half and John frowned but he then rushed to stand in front of Sherlock. 

Sebastian fired three more arrows at Magnussen and all three found their mark. “Die, already,” he muttered to himself.

“I think not,” Magnussen sneered even though he was bleeding from six arrows in him and then fired a third _Lightning Bolt_ at Sebastian. Sebastian ducked but felt himself surrounded by cool white crackling electricity. His legs slowly gave way and his vision was swallowed by darkness. “Next?” Magnussen yelled, “I will turn you into undead ooze-gerbils!”

“I like gerbils; they’re cute,” Mrs. Hudson said as she staggered toward Magnussen and struck him soundly in the chest. He quickly raised his hands and a glowing black _Shield_ appeared and blocked the strike. The weapon thundered loudly but the sound echoed with futility. She struck once more but the black shield blocked it again.

“Whom shall I attack next?” Magnussen hissed and looked malevolently at Mrs. Hudson then at Sherlock. “You’re last, pretty little wizard.” Sherlock shuddered and prepared to drop the _Wall of Fire_ so he could cast _Phantasmal Killer_.

Magnussen turned back to Mrs. Hudson, raised his hand, and then his head fell forward and rolled to the ground. The body crumpled to the ground to reveal Jim, holding a bloody garrotte behind him. He looked at them sweetly. “No one touches _my_ pretty wizard but me!” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster although it was obvious that he was hurt.

“Right, let me get Seb patched up and then let’s finish off that golem!” John said.

“I think it’s probably dead or will be soon,” Sherlock stated. “It took some solid hits before I engulfed it in fire.” He smiled wickedly. “It hasn’t come out so maybe it’s dead already.”

“Just be ready!” John walked over to Sebastian and cast _Cure Wounds_. “I’m almost out of spells, in case you’re wondering so, let’s not listen to Jim when he suggests going to check out something else.” Jim snorted.

Mrs. Hudson readied herself and the maul but when Sherlock dropped the _Wall of Fire_ all that was left of the golem was a pile of cinders.

Everyone all right?” Sebastian asked.

“You’re the only one that dropped, Seb,” Jim said. Sebastian eyed the necromancer’s body.

“Jim finished him off,” Sherlock said proudly and hugged Jim.

“Don’t start, you two, or I’m going to be a bit sick,” John said.

*~*~*

“We’re rich!” Sebastian exclaimed. The group was sitting in the common room of the Walk Right Inn.

“We’re richer, maybe not quite rich yet,” Mrs, Hudson amended. “Although I can’t believe the Lord Governor tried to stiff us our fee. Rude!”

“He’s pretty despicable,” John added. “I’m not sure Helm would want me to continue working for such a man.”

“And I really don’t know what or why he kept muttering something about a pocket watch half the time,” Mrs. Hudson continued. “But we have our money and he added these rooms at this nice inn so, it’s all fine.” 

“And once we divvy up the loot from Magnussen’s treasure, we’ll really be rich!” Sebastian added. “I’m going back to the Winsome Wench and drink myself into oblivion in a bed full of naked tavern wenches.”

“You can do better than that, mate,” John said. 

“He can,” Jim agreed, “but no one does better than me with my _pretty wizard.”_

“You can stop calling me that, James,” Sherlock growled playfully but then pulled Jim into a kiss. 

“Knock it off, you two,” Sebastian teased. 

“You’re just jealous, Sebastian,” Mrs. Hudson noted. “Go find yourself a nice soldier or sailor girl. Or a baker who can cook! We can try the next village over. This one has just a few uppity high society girls and not even like those in the city, and tavern wenches.” 

“I’m actually really just okay with a bed full of wenches,” Sebastian said sullenly. 

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t think so, Sebastian. Do you want me to help you out though?” He pointed at him and scritched his finger teasingly. 

Sebastian glared at him. “No! Absolutely not! Last time you wiggled your fingers on my behalf, you made that half-ogre look pretty and I… just no, okay, no!” 

Sherlock smiled slyly and cast a quick _Prestidigitation_ spell and six pretty dancing elf maidens appeared around Sebastian’s head. “I hate the lot of you!” Sebastian grumbled. 

“How’s this? We fix up the tower up,” Jim suggested. “It can be our home base. There’s archery and practice fields, lots of woods for hunting too. We could set up a room for John to do his praying and studying and whatever else he needs to do so that Helm fixes us up when we need him to. Sherlock can rebuild the laboratory and use the library.” 

“It’s a phenomenal library!” Sherlock said. “He had books on _everything_.” 

“It’s big enough for all of us!” Mrs. Hudson said. “Although you’ll be hiring staff. I’m not a housekeeper.” The rest of the group laughed. 

“Once we’re done fixing it up, and it’ll take three, four, six months, and we get bored, we can go looking for adventure again!!” Jim said. The rest raised their glasses and cheers. 

*~*~* 

(a ten day later)  
The merry band of five adventurers marched into Lord Governor Mycroft of Holme’s office. They no longer bothered to wait for a guard to let them in. The Lord Governor looked up and seemed displeased but put on a patently fake smile. 

“So, Mycroft,” Jim said and smirked when the man winced at the informality. “You said you had a mission for us…” 


	21. Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William is worried that James is upset about something so they take a vacation and William plans something special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sequel to Day 13: Amnesia and Day 19: Massage. It loses something if you haven't read those two first. There will probably be a part 4. Also, this chapter is mostly from William's POV so it's skewed a bit...  
> Thank you for reading.

**Kisses**

William smiled and turned his head when he heard the door of the balcony open. “Do you like it?” Jim asked shyly and leaned against the doorway. “Suitcases are unpacked.”

“It’s beautiful, stunning,” William asserted and opened his arms indicating Jim should sit in his lap. “But do _you_ like it? Are you pleased to be here?” He’d been worried that his husband had seemed preoccupied over something the past two weeks and had suggested, insisted even, on a vacation. Jim had chosen the Greek island of Mykonos and rented a villa in the Little Venice section of the town of Mykonos.

Jim sat in William’s lap and William promptly kissed him. He loved kissing his husband especially in that position. With the difference in height, this put them on the same level. He also simply loved putting his arms around Jim and holding him; like they were two halves of a perfect whole. It grounded him and gave him a feeling of assurance that Jim was real and wouldn’t vanish, like his memories.

“I _do_ love it here.” Jim smiled up at him. “The blue of the Aegean, the white buildings, the narrow cobblestone streets, the atmosphere, the food, the people, the shops, and, of course, being here with _you_. Plus, staying in a place where pirates used to live. What more could anyone want?”

William smiled. Jim had told him a few stories about how he had loved pirates as a child and had wanted to be one. “We should find pirate costumes.” He kissed Jim again.

“For you, yes,” Jim said. “I’ve never seen myself as one. I’m too short. Maybe a sexy merman singing to you from the ocean.”

“ _That_ sounds wonderful!” William said but then pursed his lips. He still struggled with his lack of memory and not being able to know anything past seven months prior. “Have we been here before?”

“Yes,” Jim replied. “We honeymooned here. And I was here a few times before we were married, with the consulting.” 

William nodded but then decided to tackle the unspoken subject of his memory loss and how it might be affecting their relationship. He feared that it frustrated Jim and that he was a burden and that it was the root of Jim’s recent discontent. “What’s been bothering you the past two weeks?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.” William kissed Jim tenderly. 

“Nothing really.” 

“After all these years, even if I have lost all my memories, I can still read you. You’ve been off these past two weeks. What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Jim replied and wrapped his arms around William’s waist. “Just work stuff.”

William shook his head. His fears refused to be quieted especially since Jim didn’t give him specific details. He finally addressed it directly. “Is it me? Is it that I don’t remember anything? Or, more specifically, is it that I don’t remember _us_?” 

“No, love! Not at all.” Jim shook his head emphatically and then kissed William. “No,” he then continued. “Never that.”

“It doesn’t bother you that I don’t remember our wedding? Or dating? Or any firsts? Or anything at all that we shared?”

“Nooooooo, why would you think that, love?” 

William kissed Jim again. “It bothers me a little,” he admitted. “You’ve taken care of me at my worst. You got my life together for me after the incident and I have nothing to give you. I know seven months of us, not a lifetime. And that emptiness, that nothingness drives me insane. You tell me what we did and it’s not a memory, it’s a story.”

Jim curled up into him. “It’s what we have to work with. It doesn’t bother me because I’m more pragmatic than you are, love. I could have lost you and, if I had, then nothing in the past would have mattered. I’m happy for every minute with you in the present.”

“But, then, what has been bothering you?” William persisted. “You’re being vague.”

“I’m actually worried about you, love,” Jim admitted. “The doctor said it would only last for one or two months and here we are, still.” William sighed. He had seen their private physician a few times and she had been unable to provide any conclusive answers about his memory. They had done a barrage of tests and he was perfectly healthy and uninjured otherwise. “I worry that they missed something… and I might really lose you.”

“Nothing was missed,” William said and then pressed a series of kisses along Jim’s jaw before taking his time with a long passionate kiss. They both eventually pulled apart and stared into each other’s eyes. “I have an idea.”

“Uh oh,” Jim teased and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “This can’t be good but I’m sure it’ll be fun.”

“I was thinking.”

“A scary proposition, that.”

“Stop it.” William kissed Jim with a bit more force to playfully silence him. “I did some research before coming here and I was thinking, if you wanted, maybe we could renew our vows.” Jim’s eyes widened with surprise. “It’s perfect here and that way I would have a new memory of getting married.” Jim didn’t say anything but stared at him. “Or… do you not…”

“I do! That’s a brilliant idea,” Jim said and kissed him before staring into his eyes again. “You really want to do this?”

“I came up with the idea,” William noted. Jim smiled happily and it warmed William’s heart. He’d missed those moments between them. 

“Do you want me to make the arrangements?” Jim asked.

“Yes, you’re better at those things. I’ll call Seb.” William smiled gleefully.

“Seb?”

“Yes, I figured he’d be the best witness,” William stated. He and Jim’s bodyguard had gotten closer and he was no longer worried about how close Jim and Seb were. Sebastian was his friend now as well and he couldn’t imagine the other man not being with them. “He’s in Athens. He liked my idea too and followed us a day behind.”

“You wicked schemer,” Jim teased and then pulled him into a very long kiss that made William very, very happy.

*~*~*

Two days was all that Jim needed to put together the perfect sunset ceremony. He attended to every detail and nuance so that William would need no other memory but this one. They spent the day pampering themselves while Sebastian tended to the last-minute details and then wed as the sun fell. Jim was pleased that a renewal of vows ceremony and an _actual wedding_ were almost identical.

Later that evening, they danced on the balcony and drank champagne. Jim knew that he couldn’t quite contain his happiness and found it ironic that it wasn’t really for himself. William was happy. The light and joy in William’s eyes was more important than anything he had ever accomplished. He absentmindedly wondered what Jim Moriarty would have thought if someone had predicted this years ago and then decided it didn’t matter.

Even receiving a text mid-waltz didn’t affect his mood. He waited until William was unwrapping the ouzo that Sebastian had procured for them to read it.

Congratulations. –MH

Jim smiled. He was sure that Mycroft was fuming but he didn’t care. In making a perfect day for William, he’d accidentally created the best day of his own life. Mycroft wasn’t going to ruin it. He sent Mycroft a picture of the two of them with his reply.

Thanks, Iceman. -JM


	22. Story Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is working on something mysterious and Sherlock has to find out what it is.

**Story Time**

Sherlock’s phone screeched like a wailing banshee in distress indicating a text from Mycroft. He yawned and looked past his bedroom door to the kitchen where Jim was seated at the table typing furiously on his computer. “Jim!” he called out. His lover looked up and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock raised an arm with his hand open as though he were receiving a mug. Jim looked back at his laptop. “Jiiii-iiim.”

“Get your own.”

“I have to attend to this text from Mycroft.”

“Not my problem, dear, I’m a bit busy.”

“But Jim…”

“I’m not John Watson,” Jim retorted. “Fetch it yourself.”

“Yeah, he’s not John Watson, and thank goodness for that,” John said from the living room. “But I agree, get your own.”

Sherlock’s phone screamed once more indicating that the text was unread. “Bother,” Sherlock grumbled and rolled over so he could reach his cell.

  


What is your supposedly secret boyfriend, who shouldn’t be in your apartment, doing? -MH

I don’t have a boyfriend. -SH

Of course you don’t but please check on what he is doing. -MH

There’s unusual web activity coming from your flat. -MH

I thought I told you no more cameras. -SH

You did. Please check on that. It’s of national concern considering what your super secret boyfriend gets himself into. -MH

Piss off. -SH

Charming as always. Get back to me and give my regards to Watson. -MH

  


Sherlock growled and threw the phone across the room. “That good?” Jim asked a few moments later.

“Dealing with Mycroft is…”

“Always a joy and pleasure,” Jim supplied. “He’s so modest and reserved.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he rolled off the bed and stood before retrieving his cell. “Your phone seems to survive you a lot more successfully since I got you that Otter Box.”

“I’m not the problem,” Sherlock noted as he walked into the living room. “What are you doing, John?”

“Reading.”

“Do we have a case?”

John looked up, stared at him, and then blinked his eyes a few times before glancing sideways at Jim in the kitchen. “Ask _him_.”

“Don’t hate me because I’m brilliant,” Jim teased which caused John to shake his head and go back to reading.

Sherlock sauntered into the kitchen, eyed the kettle, then sat at the table across from Jim. “What are _you_ doing? You seem engrossed.”

“Nothing.” Jim said but continued typing.

“Is it a case?”

“No.” Jim paused and looked up. “And if it were, would I tell _you_? That would take all the fun out of it.”

__

__

“Then what _are_ you doing?” Sherlock pressed.

“Nuuuuuh-thing,” Jim sing-songed.

“I insist.”

“You’re out of luck then, Sherl. This isn’t any of your business.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Nooooooo-oooh!”

“Everything you do is my business.”

“That’s sweet. And adorable. And _ordinary_. So, knock it off.” Sherlock bristled at that word, growled at Jim, and rose. Jim quickly shut his laptop. “Leave me alone! Go bother, Mycroft. I’m sure he started whatever this is about. Or, if he didn’t, I’m sure he deserves it for some future reason.”

“James.”

“William.”

“Now.”

“No.”

"Now.”

“Shall we take this to the bedroom?” Jim suggested sweetly. “I can show you what’s really important. And I’m suddenly feeling… creative.”

“Quick, run, Sherlock,” John mumbled from the living room without looking up from his book.

“Hush, you,” Jim grumbled. “You’re supposed to be on my side.” John didn’t bother to reply. “I love you, Johnny Boy.”

“You are so full of it.” John still didn’t look up. “But I don’t see why you don’t give up.” Jim gasped. “You, of all people, should know how he gets. Once he’s got a hold of something, he’s like a bull terrier.”

“Tell me immediately what you were doing.”

“Typing,” Jim said flatly. “Are you happy now?”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock grumbled and then pouted. “That is the most vague, inconclusive, distractive, and imprecise answer I have ever heard you give me.”

John finally looked up from his book and almost laughed at the pair. “Why don’t you two negotiate?” he suggested. “I’m sure, if it’s important enough to Sherlock, he’d be willing to offer something.”

“That’s not a half bad idea,” Jim noted and then gave Sherlock a wide-eyed maniac look. “What do you have to offer me? Hmmmmm? Your soul?”

“You already have that, you lunatic.”

“Oh, well then, I’m happy,” Jim said and sighed contentedly. Sherlock frowned. “Really, Sherlock, I wasn’t doing anything untoward. You asked for no crimes here and I’ve done nothing but respect your request. This is ridiculous.” Sherlock glared at him while John suddenly started to look worried.

“You should have no secrets from me.”

“Sherlock, this isn’t about secrets. You don’t have to unravel every little detail of my life to satisfy your curiosity.”

“No secrets!” Sherlock stated almost angrily.

“You’re being a bit intrusive, Sherlock,” John said calmly. “Far be it for me to ever be on Mr. Semtex Vest’s side but…”

“Seeeeeee! When Johnny _agrees_ with meeeeee...!” Jim sang merrily.

“Just offer him sex,” John said bluntly and then turned back his book.

“Sex!” Sherlock stated. “I’m good with sex. We can do the sex.”

Jim arched an eyebrow and shook his head. “ _The_ sex? We do _the sex_ anyways, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips and paused to think. He ran through all of Jim’s favorite things in everyday life, at mealtimes, at tea, when they went out, when they were at one of Jim’s flats, in bed, when they played practical jokes on Mycroft, in every aspect of their life together. Nothing in particular jumped out at him but John was usually right about these things. When he focused on the room again, he saw that John was making tea and Jim was at his laptop but opening a box from a bakery. “Ahem!”

“Back with us are you?” John asked. “Kettle’s almost boiled.”

“Johnny went to Gail’s and got treats,” Jim pointed out. “We weren’t sure how long you’d be… thinking.”

“We do what you want tonight,” Sherlock said.

“Still on that, love? It really isn’t all that important,” Jim said.

“The fact that you won’t tell me means it’s important,” Sherlock answered. He refused to mention Mycroft or the trust issue but he was beginning to wonder. 

“We do what I want for _one week_.”

John’s eyes widened. “As long as you two don’t tell me and you’re quiet, because I don’t want to hear it in the middle of the night.” Jim snickered.

“Fine,” Sherlock growled. 

Jim stood up and offered him his seat while John brought the tea over. “Here you go. You won’t be disappointed with _the sex_ but I can’t speak for what’s there on the computer.” He shrugged mischievously and pulled a pastry out of the box. “Thanks, Johnny. I should have the sex with _you_ instead.” Sherlock immediately sat down and started reading.

“Uhhh, no thanks. You two bring enough crazy in my life _without_ the sex.”

“You love it,” Jim teased.

“Who are Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel?” Sherlock asked. Jim giggled and John looked perplexed. “And who is Sebastian Smythe? Is that a code for Moran?” Jim burst out laughing and shook his head. “What is this, Jim? And what about Noah Puckerman, Finn Hudson, and, and, and all these other people. Why are Blaine and Kurt doing _that_ …”

“Oh, my God,” John said. “That’s Glee _fanfiction_ , Sherlock.”

“What? What’s that?”

“It’s a story,” John explained. “Jim wrote a story about the Glee characters doing things, usually sex, that’s not in the shows.” 

Sherlock stared at Jim incredulously. “Glee?”

“Molly asked me to,” Jim mumbled around a rather large bite of pastry. “This is good, Johnny.”

“I have good taste,” John said and then eyed the other two. “At least in some things.”

“Oh, there’s a comment on this,” Sherlock noted and then looked up. “Marvelous Miss M said ‘Oh, squeeeeeeeeee! This is just the best. I looooove this story soooooo much’ and she’s got twenty hearts and uncountable exclamation points after it. You have got to be kidding me.”

“We all know how much Molly likes Glee,” John said dryly. “That’s somewhat nice of you to write it for her, Jim.” Jim smiled although Sherlock didn’t look amused but then turned back to the computer.

“I’m going to enjoy fucking your brains out, Sherlock,” Jim said. “It’ll make it worth you finding out. Want to start now?”

“Now is good,” John agreed. “I have to be at work soon so, have at, get it out of your system now and not when I’m trying to sleep later.”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock said and shot Jim a wicked smug smile. “This author is prolific.” Jim groaned and John laughed. “Over a hundred of these stories written by one _JimBunny_.” Jim turned away and banged his head against the refrigerator. “I _have_ to read.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to fabricdragon for suggesting Glee and, as always, thank you for reading.


	23. Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes confronts Professor James O'Murtagh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapters follows Day 13: Amnesia, Day 19: Massage, and Day 21: Kisses. It loses something if you haven't read those first. There will be one more chapter after this.   
> Thank you for reading.

**Angst**

Professor James O'Murtagh sat calmly in his office and reviewed his lesson plans for that evening’s class. He didn’t need to do that. He perpetually revised his notes every week, after each class, after each semester, and at the beginning of the new semester. That morning, it gave him something to do while waiting for his next appointment. His morning schedule had been changed by the university administration and he’d been unable to make any changes in the system without hacking, which would have aroused suspicions and something that Professor James O'Murtagh certainly wouldn’t do.

Jim knew who this was and knew this meeting was inevitable. They’d been on a collision course since he’d decided to take Sherlock as his own and then given him the freedom to do what he wanted. Two days prior, Jim had received word that he’d have a visitor soon. Even though he had let most of his previous life go, he still maintained his contacts in the British government and religiously kept track of every move that Mycroft Holmes made. He’d sent William and Sebastian out of the country as a precaution and carried a panic button linked to Sebastian.

Hearing footsteps outside his office, he knew that it was time and carefully rearranged a few things on his desk to assuage the nervousness. He looked over at the tea set to confirm that everything was still where he’d left it and then fiddled with his favorite pen. Mycroft Holmes was not someone he’d ever wanted to see again. An abrupt knock was heard and it seemed to thunder through the office. Jim silently asked the faeries to keep things as sane as possible. “Come in,” he said. The door opened to reveal Mycroft Holmes, dressed as sharply as ever, and two large, muscular government agents behind him. Jim wondered if they were going to speak first or if he would soon be a guest of the government again. “You’re four minutes early, Iceman,” he noted cheerfully.

“I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting. That would be horribly impolite,” Mycroft said. His voice was tinged with cold. 

“Do come in.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft turned to the other two. “Wait outside.” One of the men pulled the door closed after Mycroft stepped inside.

“Would you like some tea?” Jim asked and then indicated one of the two chairs on the other side of his desk. “Please, sit down.”

Mycroft nodded, set his briefcase down, and leaned his umbrella against the desk before sitting down. “Tea would be lovely.”

Jim rose and turned on the electric kettle that he’d already filled with water. He then brought over the tray that had a Belleek shamrock tea pot, mugs, sugar bowl and cream jug. “How quaint,” Mycroft noted.

“I’m Irish,” Jim retorted but without much bite as he sat down once more. “The faeries like it when I celebrate my heritage.”

Mycroft snorted. “I see.”

Jim glared at him. Leave it to the British to always be so dismissive of anything Irish. He sighed. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such a visit, Mr. Holmes?” he asked evenly.

“I think you know, in general,” Mycroft replied. “But specifically, there are a myriad of solutions to the current problem and I thought it would be courteous to speak with you first, perhaps seek some clarification on matters that make… Absolutely. No. Sense.”

“Just because _you_ don’t understand them, doesn’t mean that they don’t make sense,” Jim said and flashed Mycroft a very Moriarty grin.

Mycroft actually growled and Jim almost laughed at that. Mycroft’s next words, however, didn’t make him laugh. “If you don’t want to cooperate, Professor O'Murtagh, we can continue this discussion in my office back home.”

“I don’t care for your office all that much,” Jim noted calmly but his hand moved to his jacket pocket and he pressed the panic button. “I was never offered any tea there.” Mycroft pursed his lips and then pinched the bridge of his nose. At that moment, the kettle started boiling and beeped. 

“That was fast,” Mycroft noted.

“I pre-boiled it so we wouldn’t have as long to wait.” Jim rose and poured the water into the teapot. 

“Interesting. I must review the security in my office.”

“Your office still leaks like a steel sieve, Mycroft.” Mycroft watched him intently and then continued to stare at him after he had sat down again. “So, what do you want to know?” Jim asked quietly.

For a split second a look of uncontrolled hatred, fury, and anguish flashed across Mycroft’s face before he regained his icy poise. He let out a loud, controlled exhale. “How? Why?”

Reigning in the desire to retort provocatively, Jim simply said, “That can be answered in many ways.” Seeing that flash of emotion brought back memories of his interrogation but also showed him something else and that realization tempered his response. The Iceman felt pain and that pain probably came from _caring_ , something Mycroft Holmes would never admit to. Jim studied his nemesis and suddenly saw _so much_ caring, pain, sadness, and fear that it almost made him feel sorry for the man. “Is there something specific you’d like to know or would you like me to explain from the beginning of this.”

Mycroft seemed to relax a bit. “From the beginning would be appreciated,” he said. “I’ve struggled to make sense of what I’ve seen and it is completely and utterly illogical. It defies rationale.”

“But I thought you either knew everything or, if you didn’t, you could deduce it all.” Jim couldn’t help teasing just a little and smiled quirkily. He raised his hand when he saw that Mycroft was about to lunge across the desk and strangle him. He took a deep breath. “When I was your… guest, I got your message loud and clear.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know why Sherlock asked you to intercede, but he did, and you delivered the message loud and clear. _Leave Sherlock alone_. I acquiesced. I ceded you that victory.” Mycroft snorted dismissively. “And handed you your biggest defeat all in one.”

“And yet, here we are,” Mycroft replied icily. 

“Here we are, yes,” Jim said. “I left. I’ve retired. I’ve been clean since the rooftop.”

Mycroft smirked. “Except for a few things here and there. That little Rembrandt, a Picasso… minor things. All things considered one could almost call you a veritable _saint_.”

“Oh, please.”

“Do go on.”

“I’d been slowly liquidating my holdings in London,” Jim continued. “Letting things go. Selling things off. Professor James O'Murtagh doesn’t need any of that. He’s quite content with what he has and the less he had to do with England, the British government, you, or your brother, the better.”

“Such a wonderful man.” Mycroft’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

Jim frowned. Mycroft’s reply made him angry. “Although I did keep tabs just a little on dear Sherlock,” he admitted sweetly. Mycroft frowned. “Who do you think provided you that anonymous tip about Serbia? Really horrible of you Mycroft to have him running around solving _your_ problems all under the guise of eliminating me.”

“Some things needed to happen,” Mycroft almost snarled.

Jim shrugged. “Anyway, last time I was there, I had Sebastian deliver some items that I no longer needed to a dealer that I got along with better than most. He was mostly useful.” Mycroft nodded. “Sebastian came back with a drugged out and injured Sherlock. He said he found him in the back of that drug den, completely out, with no phone, wallet, ID, nothing on him, and a large, nasty gash on his head. Can you shed some light on that, oh ever-watchful big brother? How did _that_ happen?”

Mycroft winced at the well-placed jab. “I assume you knew he was using again.”

“I did but you _seemed_ to be keeping up,” Jim murmured but shot Mycroft an accusatory glare. Mycroft looked away. “The short of it is that when he came to and was coherent enough, he had no memory. Nada, zip, none, nothing.” 

Mycroft stared at him impassively. “I don’t believe you. What have you been giving him?”

“I don’t have access to all the fancy drugs that you do, Iceman,” Jim said. “And I don’t think even what you have could achieve that level of results.”

Mycroft was silent for some time, as though he were analyzing every drug the government had in its arsenal. “I would tend to agree with you. That level… would incapacitate him or be evident in other ways, I suppose, and I did guess that but…”

Jim retrieved the copies of the doctor’s reports he’d picked up the previous day and handed them to Mycroft. “These are the notes from the specialists who saw him. Obviously, my physicians, so take it with as much salt as you wish.”

Mycroft glanced at the papers and then tucked them into his briefcase. “If that’s the case, why this?” he asked. “Why the new life, the make-believe wedding, the music, all of this fantasy life? Why not…” he trailed off as though some of the answers came to him. It was Jim’s turn to look away. “Tell me what just crossed your mind.” Jim stared at him then rose to pour them both some tea. He shook his head. “Tell me,” Mycroft pressed but in a gentler tone. “I would have expected James Moriarty to do a lot of things with a helpless Sherlock Holmes; things to hurt him, to hurt me. I don’t understand _this_.”

Jim sat down again and smiled sadly. “I fell in love with Sherlock when I was eleven,” he said quietly. “I fell in love with a perfect boy genius who solved my perfect murder when I wasn’t Jim Moriarty. I had dreams of the two of us together even then. I followed him through high school, college, you know this.”

“I do.”

“What you don’t know is that my fantasy of our relationship, of a life together, never died. It changed with time, over the different phases of my life,” Jim said. “I loved him before, during, and after Jim Moriarty and you never got to that.”

“I didn’t know about it. I couldn’t have guessed.”

“Probably for the best,” Jim quipped but then returned to an even tone. “When Seb dropped him at my feet, it brought back all the hopes and dreams that I’d held since childhood. I picked him up and put him in my fantasy.”

“Only by now,” Mycroft supplied. “You were Professor James O'Murtagh, who generally wouldn’t hurt anything bigger than a fly, has a respected, sensible life, and lives the academic dream.” 

Jim nodded. “Professor James O'Murtagh’s life is this.” He waved to his office. “It’s perfectly safe, tame. I put Sherlock in it and...” Suddenly there was shouting and a crash from outside. Both Jim and Mycroft frowned. Jim shook his head and continued, “Frankly, I expected him to recover his memory fairly quickly and then hate me for what I did. It would have been worth it even for just one day of that dream.” 

Something hit the outside wall hard. Both men stood. Mycroft reached for his umbrella while Jim’s hand went to the gun that he had hidden at his waist. The door flew open and slammed against the opposite wall to reveal William, out of breath, and very clearly, angry. Behind him, Sebastian was dealing with one of the government agents while the other lay unconscious on the ground.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft gasped.

“William!” Jim said simultaneously. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Sweden!”

William stared at the two and then his eyes narrowed. Growling, he hurled himself at Mycroft. “Stay away from my husband, you bastard!” He shoved Mycroft against the bookshelf.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft wheezed and raised his hands defensively. 

William landed a couple of quick punches to Mycroft’s abdomen, doubling him over. “If you so much as touched a single hair on my husband’s head,” he yelled and punched Mycroft solidly in the jaw as he sought to look up. His lip started bleeding.

“William, stop!” Jim said and tried to grab his shoulders.

“I know what these people do!” William shouted and tried to punch Mycroft again. 

Jim grabbed his arm and pulled him away. “Stop it, William,” he said calmly while interposing himself between William and Mycroft. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” William said a bit more calmly and pulled Jim into a hug. He kissed Jim tenderly and smiled. “No one touches my husband.”

“Sherlock?” Mycroft stammered.

Sherlock turned and glared at Mycroft. “I’m William. I’m not Sherlock or anyone else you might think or want me to be. Go away.”

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft stepped forward and put a trembling hand on the desk for support. Blood was dripping off his chin and onto his bespoke suit. Jim stepped out of William’s arms and picked up a tea towel. He handed it to Mycroft but remained silent. 

“I don’t know who you are,” Sherlock growled. “And I don’t want to know. You, however, need to leave before I change my mind. Get out.”

“Yeah, you better leave. Most sane people don’t mess with William,” Sebastian said from the doorway and then eyed the two unconscious agents. “And take the trash out with you.” 

Jim watched Mycroft fight to keep his composure as he read Sherlock. He was silent for some time before finally speaking, “Thank you for your hospitality, Professor O'Murtagh. I appreciate your time.”

“Best be gone by the time we decide to come out for lunch,” Sebastian said smugly as Mycroft walked past him. “Otherwise I’m going to let William have another go at you.” He shut the door behind Mycroft.


	24. Irrational Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following a night on the town, Jim and Sherlock have breakfast at Mycroft's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sequel to Day 3: Drunk Shenanigans. It loses something if you haven't read that one first.  
> Also, a happy birthday to the lovely fabricdragon.  
> Thank you for reading.

**Irrational Fears**

Katsaridaphobia

Something delightful woke Jim and he proceeded to assess the situation. He was warm. He was thoroughly ensconced in someone’s arms and that someone was Sherlock. Perfect. The sheets were soft, silky, and very high quality. He felt rested; it was that rested feeling that one gets after sleeping deeply and for a long time. Bliss. It was, however, the smell of bacon that had awakened him. Jim’s eyes flew open. Someone _other than Sherlock_ was cooking bacon.

Jim looked around him. The sheets were the wrong color. He peered over the top of them and then frowned as he recognized the location “Sherlock!” Jim shook his lover to rouse him. “Wake up!”

“Mmmmmph…”

“No, wake up, I’m serious. _Why_ are we in _Mycroft’s_ guestroom?”

“Whaaaaa…”

Jim sat up and pulled the sheets off of Sherlock. That always did the trick. “Why are we here? What did we do last night?” Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes. “And why is Mycroft cooking bacon?”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling. “We went out,” he finally said. “We drank a lot.”

“Oh, that’s right. Whose brilliant idea was it to do shots?”

“Yours.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Yours.”

“Was not.”

“Was too,” Sherlock teased and turned on his side before wrapping his arms around Jim’s waist.

“Don’t make me argue with you,” Jim grumbled.

“As long as you agree that it was your brilliant idea then I won’t have to argue with you.”

“All my ideas are brilliant,” Jim stated and then leaned down to kiss Sherlock. “I’m sure we had fun, even if I don’t exactly remember all of it right now. Did we steal anything fantastic? I don’t remember sirens anywhere.”

“It’ll come back.” Sherlock sat up and pulled Jim close. Jim nodded. “You made notes in your phone.”

“I’m good that way,” Jim purred.

“We broke into Mycroft’s.”

“And stole government secrets?”

“We should have,” Sherlock said. “No, we just broke in, started having sex in his bed, and he walked in on us.”

Jim’s eyes widened. “What?!” he almost shrieked.

“I think he said something about being worried about us and not leaving us to our own devices for too long.”

“He needs to be punished for that.”

“I concur. So, he came home a day early and walked in on us.”

“How rude.”

“Agreed.”

“But why is he cooking bacon?” Jim asked. “I don’t trust your brother.”

“I don’t trust him either,” Sherlock agreed. “How about we shower and then see what’s going on with him.”

“Do you think he’s upset that we… uh…?”

“I think he’s more reassured that we didn’t cause any minor or major explosions in the city.”

Jim giggled. “True. I could arrange that if he’s bored.”

*~*~*

The three of them sat at Mycroft’s dinner table finishing breakfast. “That was amazing,” Jim said as the last forkful of beans went into his mouth. Having grown up poor and hungry, he usually ate all his food rather quickly. Mycroft had surprised them with almost a full breakfast consisting of bangers, bacon, eggs, tomatoes, beans, and fried bread. “I don’t know how you managed, Iceman, what with a long trip and jetlag.”

“Keeping a strict routine helps immensely,” Mycroft stated. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s true. But really, the answer is that you two slept until eleven and it is now half past one. Even though I slept in as well, that did still give me plenty of time to prepare a proper breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Jim said quietly but then wondered why Mycroft winced. Their relationship was still a bit strained but both were making an effort because of Sherlock. Jim turned to look at his lover, who had barely finished half his meal, and had spent most of the time creating something that looked more like a Picasso than food on a breakfast plate. “Are you going to eat that piece of bacon?”

“There’s more in the kitchen if you’re still hungry,” Mycroft offered and beamed in a pleased manner that at least Jim had appreciated his meal and wanted more. 

As Jim looked at Mycroft and to the kitchen beyond, movement on the floor caught his eye and he gasped. Sherlock looked up from the masterpiece he was creating. A small flat brown insect scuttled quickly out from the kitchen. Jim shrieked as memories from childhood flooded his mind, seeing the creatures in his house, crawling on him when he tried to study at night, teeming on food that had been left out by his drunken parents. He screamed and jumped up on the chair while drawing his gun.

At the same time Sherlock’s jaw dropped and his face went deathly pale as he too saw the small creature. “No, no, no…” he mumbled almost incoherently as though lost in a dream. “Not again…” He too stepped up on the chair but then seemed to frantically brush something invisible off of his arms. 

“Save me!” Jim cried out and moved to Sherlock’s chair while trying to target the creature now scuttling out of the dining room.

“Do _not_ shoot my floor,” Mycroft ordered.

“Kill it, Jim,” Sherlock whimpered. “It’s like before, make it go away.”

“It’s not going to hurt you,” Mycroft noted. “Really, it’s a cockroach and you two are grown men.” He pulled out his phone and quickly snapped a picture. “Mummy will adore this.”

“Cockroach, _Blatella germanica_ ,” Sherlock whispered. Both seemed oblivious to Mycroft’s last action. “Mycroft, you have cockroaches! What is this? How did this happen? Have you lost your cleanliness as well as your diet?”

“I have an exterminating company,” Jim said and also pulled out his phone. “I’m calling them right now.”

Mycroft shook his head. “There is no need. It was probably just one.”

“Where there is one, there are thousands,” Sherlock stated and Jim nodded his head in agreement. “Mycroft, how could you let an abhorrent infestation happen?”

“I can’t stay on this floor!” Jim said and tried to climb up Sherlock, who was still standing on the chair. 

“No, calm down, you’re going to break that chair,” Mycroft grumbled. “It’s Edwardian.”

Sherlock glared at him and then scooped Jim up. “It’s a house with cockroaches. That’s just disgusting Mycroft. It’s like a… a…”

“It’s like a crack house or a smack den.” Jim shuddered but then his call went through and he explained in no uncertain terms that there was an emergency and gave them Mycroft’s address.

Mycroft shook his head. “No, I would have seen more of them if it were an intrusion. Please don’t. You can cancel them, James.”

“No! It’s my pleasure, Iceman!” Jim said and then turned to Sherlock. “Get me out of here.”

“I can’t. They’re on the floor.” Sherlock turned to Mycroft. “Can you push the chair with us on it out to the door?”

“No,” Mycroft sighed. “I’m going to make myself another plate. You two can stay there and carry on with this foolishness or get back to breakfast.” He rose and headed for the kitchen. Jim and Sherlock looked at each other with incredibly wide eyes and then they nodded. Sherlock carefully set Jim down on the chair almost trepidatiously. Both took a deep breath, jumped off, sending the chair skidding across the dining room, and raced out of the house.

*~*~*

Mycroft sighed once more and set his second plate on the table before shaking his head and picking up the chair. “That didn’t go quite as planned,” he said to himself. He then went to his study and retrieved a small robot controlled cockroach. He smiled at it. “At least we did get a good blackmail picture.”


	25. Space/Astronomy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hunts down one of Moriarty's lieutenants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. This one turned out to be a bit more complex than I'd expected. I was also in a very minor fender-bender and suffered a bit of whiplash/mild concussion. Nothing serious but it slowed me down even more. The next two are almost done so, should be up soon.  
> {Brackets} denote speaking in a foreign language.
> 
> TW:minor bondage and blood play.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**Space/Astronomy**

Keeping to the shadows and underbrush, Sherlock quietly approached the house that sat on top of the hill in the far outskirts of the city of Tartu in Estonia. It was a gothic house reminiscent of the old Byzantine buildings and churches in the city. Sherlock had no doubt that the interior and specifically the security would be quite modern. With its position on the hill, visitors could be seen approaching from at least a mile away. Sherlock had driven as close as he thought reasonable and then continued on foot.

He was on the hunt for yet another of Moriarty’s lieutenants although his intention was not to kill this one. Viktor Chelyadnin, a seemingly innocent bookkeeper, had managed Moriarty’s Russian accounts. He had, perhaps, been Moriarty’s connection to the Russian mafia and somehow had escaped the notice of everyone, including Mycroft and the British government. After Moriarty’s death, the man had vanished completely. Only recently, when Mycroft was following up on the anonymous tip that had led to Sherlock’s rescue in Serbia, had Chelyadnin been identified.

Mycroft had given him what little information had been found but hadn’t specified that Chelyadnin be killed. His brother had mentioned that the man probably possessed quite a bit of valuable information and might be worth more alive. Sherlock had vaguely agreed but he knew that he’d never terminate or turn over the man who had for all intents and purposes saved his life unless it was absolutely necessary. Curiosity and, perhaps, a need to say thank you, were what drove him. He also wanted to question Chelyadnin regarding the possibility that Moriarty might still be alive because, yes, he did miss his nemesis, his counterpart, his equal. Quite a bit.

Everything was dark when he found the security system. When Sherlock had observed the house from a distance, he’d seen a few small lights but now there was nothing. After disabling the alarms and picking the lock, he quietly let himself in. The house was still and silent. Sherlock turned on a small flashlight and looked around. He was standing in a foyer facing steps leading upward. An elegant but understated dining room was to his left and a similar great room to his right. 

Deductions flew through his head but he realized that most were superficial. Chelyadnin seemed to be a man who showed you everything but told you nothing. Sherlock nodded to himself in appreciation. Something soft brushed against his leg, startling him. He looked down and a dark colored cat purred softly and rubbed up against him. He leaned down to pet the creature and then heard the hiss of a tranquilizer gun being fired immediately before feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder. Spinning around, Sherlock saw someone in the shadows. He tried to reach for his gun as his mind struggled to make deductions. Petit. Silent. Confident. Deadly. Loves Cats. He slowly fell to the ground and darkness closed in.

*~*~*

Sherlock started to rouse and the first thing he realized was the he was bound. Effectively bound. He had room to wiggle just a little but that belied the reality that he was completely restrained. Arms, chest, waist, hips, legs, and ankles. His mind was still a bit clouded. He also noticed that he was blindfolded, lying on some sort of table, and naked, but with a sheet covering his hips. And he was outside. A cool breeze ruffled his hair. The entire situation struck him as bizarre. Sherlock took a deep breath as he struggled for more clarity. He was fairly comfortable despite the circumstances.

A soft cough alerted him to a presence behind him and he tensed. “{Good evening, Mr. Holmes,}” a voice said quietly. Unique dialect. Moscow or east central Russia with hints of Kiev. The man was well traveled.

“{Mr. Chelyadnin,}” Sherlock replied in his best Russian. He spoke the language fluently but without any dialect. He heard the sound of a chair moving and then felt a hand touch his shoulder.

“{What business brings you here, Mr. Holmes?}” the man asked and placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. Direct and to the point, very business-like, no pretenses. Certainly what he would have expected for Moriarty’s Russian bookkeeper.

“{What did it look like I was doing?}” Sherlock quipped but then thought that perhaps that might not have been the smartest thing to do considering his current situation but Chelyadnin simply laughed.

“{Well, it’s not every day that the great Sherlock Holmes, world-renowned consulting detective, breaks into your house to pet the cat. Should I be honored?}”

Sherlock snorted even though he was amused by the reply. “{I was coming to see you.}”

“{With a Browning?}” the man said in a calm voice. Sherlock almost felt like he could be hypnotized by it. The man’s hand moved and Sherlock felt a cold blade touch his skin between the ropes. “{That’s not very neighborly.}”

“{The gun was for safety.}”

“{Ehhhh… You break into _my_ house unannounced and _you’re_ the one worried about _your_ safety?}” The blade pressed into his skin momentarily but then danced over the rope and to a new section of skin where it seemed to lightly draw an intricate spiral. Sherlock winced but the pain quickly melded into a warm sort of pleasure. He knew he should be concerned about the knife, but the thought of blood, and the danger were intriguing.

Chelyadnin’s other hand slid across Sherlock’s shoulder following one of the ropes and Sherlock definitely found it erotic. He unintentionally sighed but then partially regretted it. He was giving away too much, too soon. “I suppose it doesn’t make much sense if you put it that way,” he said then realized he’d reverted to English and quickly repeated in Russian.

“{If you’d emailed or texted, and I know your brother could easily get that information, I would have had some tea ready.}”

“{You...}” Sherlock struggled to find the right words and phrase his words diplomatically but he was at a loss. He carefully turned his head toward the knife and wished that he could see it and the hand that wielded it. Was it small, large? Was the skin smooth or hardened? Did he wear jewelry or rings?

“{Why are you here?}” Chelyadnin repeated. “{And would you have tried to kill _me_ , like you did so many of the others?}”

Sherlock pursed his lips. Chelyadnin wasn’t distracted by small talk. He went with flow of conversation but stayed focused. Sherlock briefly wondered about his odds of surviving the evening. “{I came here to talk to you,}” he said.

“{With a Browning?}”

“{Ever since he discovered your existence, Mycroft has worked to unravel everything about you. Like he has with all of Moriarty’s network, under the auspices of eliminating it, of course.}”

“{Of course. But you do realize that, for the most part, you’ve only found what Moriarty wanted you to find?}”

“{I suspected as much. _You_ were a surprise.}”

“{I didn’t have time to disguise my message to your brother well enough. I think you’ll agree that the situation was dire.}” The blade danced over his skin on his chest but, this time, didn’t pierce it.

“{It was,}” Sherlock admitted while admiring the man’s control with a blade. It was erotic and Sherlock was grateful for the sheet that covered him. “{I wouldn’t have lasted much longer in Serbia and I’m grateful. Thank you for getting word to my brother.}”

“{You’re welcome,}” Chelyadnin answered cheerfully but then his voice turned a bit colder. “{So, you come here to thank me by trying to kill me?}”

“{No,}” Sherlock stated emphatically. “{No, no, not at all. I came here to meet you, to see who you were, to ask you why you would do such a thing when I’m hunting your associates and… in theory, you. Why would you blow a perfect cover to save _me_?}”

“{He would have wanted me to do that. He wouldn’t have wanted you to die there, like that. I may kill you tonight, or later, and it would be beautiful but _that_? No.}”

Sherlock shuddered. That sounded so much like something Moriarty would say. “{ _Are_ you going to kill me?}”

“{I haven’t decided yet.}”

“{Can you take the blindfold off?}” Sherlock asked. Chelyadnin was silent for a moment and then Sherlock heard some rustling.

“{I’m going to restrain your head,}” the man said. “{If we come to an agreement and I don’t have to do anything bloody, then it would be for the best if you haven’t seen me.}”

“{Yes, of course, understood,}” Sherlock said although he wasn’t quite sure what the man was going to do. He felt a slender rope being wrapped and knotted around his head and over his face in an intricate pattern. Whenever fingertips or a hand fleetingly brushed against his skin, Sherlock found himself desperately wanting to interpret those touches as caresses. This was the closest he’d gotten to Moriarty in two years. A mysterious, elusive bookkeeper who had saved his life and now, instead of killing him, was playing with him, and ropes and knives, almost sweetly. In their world, it was almost a seduction. Despite himself, he exhaled slowly and felt himself relaxing into the sensations.

“{Do you like it?}”

“{Yes,}” Sherlock replied, perhaps too quickly. “{I don’t think I should, but I do.}”

“{Kinbaku, or shibari, if you prefer that term, Japanese art of rope binding, or tight binding,}” Chelyadnin explained. “{The process is supposed to be erotic but I didn’t think you’d sit still for me if you were conscious when I tied your body earlier.}” Sherlock snorted. “{You’re beautiful, by the way. Your pale skin, the ropes, hints of blood now.}” Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that and was silent until Chelyadnin continued, “{A lot of people with anxiety, fears, depression, and PTSD find it soothing as well.}”

Sherlock was relieved that the man had brought the conversation back to casual. He was already too far under. “{I can see that,}” he said while carefully feeling all the ropes and juncture points around him. It was very soothing in its own way. “{Perhaps under different circumstances…}” He felt his head being pulled forward slightly and then ropes anchoring it so that he couldn’t look behind him and barely had any lateral movement.

“{Is that tolerable?}”

“{Yes.}” Sherlock heard a chair scrape followed by cool fingers sliding underneath the blindfold, loosening it, and then pulling it off. As his eyes adjusted to the increased light, he felt the cool metal blade at his neck again. “{Yes,}” he repeated although he wasn’t quite sure what he was answering the second time. He supposed he could try to fight the ropes and get a glimpse of his captor but that would accomplish nothing except to decrease his chances of survival. “{I’m going to focus on the stars,}” he added because he didn’t know what else to say and he’d been trying to learn about astronomy in the past two years.

“{They _are_ beautiful tonight,}” Chelyadnin said. “{I’m far enough away from the city that the sky is darker and even with the moon like tonight, you can still see a lot.}”

“{He used to like the stars,}” Sherlock whispered and tried to hide the longing in his voice. He felt the blade slide down his neck but sensed no danger. It was definitely more of a caress than anything else.

“{He did.}” The blade pushed against his skin at his shoulder. Sherlock felt the surface break as Chelyadnin seemed to draw or write something.

“{There’s Cassiopeia, the W,}” Sherlock stated proudly and then continued when he received no immediate reply. The blade did stop moving. “{Queen Cassiopeia, wife of King Cepheus and mother to Andromeda, the beautiful maiden rescued by Perseus. She, Cassiopeia that is, was chained to the sky, sometimes upside down, as punishment for her vanity.}”

Chelyadnin laughed. “{Yes, that’s right. How did you-}”

“{If you follow it upwards, you reach Polaris, the North Star,}” Sherlock continued. He felt the blade moving toward his heart and wondered why he didn’t feel all that worried. “{Sailors, _and pirates_ , used to use it for navigation because it lies directly above the North Pole.}”

“{Polaris is forty-six times larger than the sun,}” Chelyadnin continued what Sherlock had begun. “{It’s a cepheid star. Cepheids vary in both diameter and temperature and produce changes in brightness with a well-defined stable period and amplitude.}” Sherlock smiled at hearing the intensity that had appeared in the man’s voice. Just like Moriarty, he guessed. “{There exists a strong and direct relationship between a cepheid’s luminosity and pulsation period. They’re important indicators of cosmic benchmarks for scaling galactic and extragalactic distances.}”

This time Sherlock sighed deeply and felt himself melting into both the ropes and the blade. The voice was mesmerizing. While the words stimulated his mind, the rhythm and cadence of Chelyadnin’s voice seduced him. He forced himself to stay focused and speak, “{Polaris is the last star in Ursa Minor.}”

“{Yes, it is.}” Chelyadin pulled the blade up Sherlock’s neck but then set it down on the table before returning just his fingers to the side of Sherlock’s face. “{What else do you see?}”

Sherlock turned his face as best he could into those fingers. “{Draco, the dragon. The four stars are the easiest to find but it’s the tail that I find fascinating. It reminds me…}”

“{Of?}” Chelyadnin prompted.

Sherlock remained silent for a while. He knew they both knew the answer. “{Of _him_ ,}” he finally replied. “{He loved the stars, astronomy, space. It was his passion. I miss him. I never wanted him to die.}” He felt sadness, loneliness, and the loss threatened to overwhelm him. “{I never thought there would be a time when I wouldn’t have the option…}” He stopped when he felt his voice start to crack.

“{The option…?}”

Sherlock felt tears building in his eyes and two years’ worth of pent up emotions threatening to pour out. Somehow, at that moment, it felt safe. Safe to explain to a man who’d known Jim Moriarty and might understand. Safe because this man had saved his life and didn’t seem intent on immediately ending him. Safe because Sherlock inexplicably felt a connection between himself and Chelyadnin. “{The option to be with him, in the way that we were. The option to play the game, a new game, any game; intellectual companionship. The option to maybe admit that I wanted more.}”

“{We always tend to think we’ll always have time… or options.}”

“{I forced myself to learn astronomy, well, I’m starting with the constellations. They’re easy. It’s a way to remember, to be with him. To pretend we’re together, with the stars. Does that make sense?}”

Chelyadnin silently moved his fingers up the side of Sherlock’s cheeks to his eyes and Sherlock knew that the man felt the start of his tears. “{Draco,}” Chelyadnin said as though the last interlude had not just happened. “{The constellation's name was probably inspired by Ladon, the dragon who guarded the golden apples of the Hesperides. Hercules killed him when he was tasked with stealing the golden apples. Nothing but trouble, those golden apples. In later Greco-Roman legends, Draco was the dragon killed by the goddess Minerva and flung into the sky upon his defeat. As Minerva threw it, the beast twisted on itself and froze from the cold before it could right itself.}”

“{That sounds painful,}” Sherlock whispered. He was grateful for the return to the topic of astronomy and tried to reign in his emotions.

“{But sometimes pain is good.}” Chelyadnin picked up the blade again and drew it over Sherlock’s upper body and face in swirling patterns mostly without breaking skin as he started describing another constellation, Cygnus. Occasionally he would nick the skin and that quick little burst of exquisite pain would make Sherlock shudder. He found himself wanting more and easily submerging in a world that he’d previously considered inconsequential but now gave him meaning and hope. Chelyadnin continued speaking about the stars, the solar system, and the galaxies. His voice spun a tale of beauty and mythos interwoven with mathematics and physics.

Slowly, as Sherlock went further under, the voice patterns changed. The cadences and intonations were different, reassuring, and more familiar. Sherlock felt as though he were safe and finally coming home. He wanted to become a part of the sky, the universe while Chelyadnin spoke so beautifully. This, Sherlock was certain, was the closest to perfection and bliss that he’d come to in a very long while. He closed his eyes but then suddenly experienced a moment of clarity so sharp that it almost hurt. He took a gasping breath of air. “Jim.”

The man behind him laughed. “Sherlock,” he replied and the rich Irish voice resonated through Sherlock’s mind. He moved into view and Sherlock smiled seeing the familiar face. He wanted to jump up and hug him. He wanted to pull Jim against him and tell him how much he’d missed him; how much he loved him. Instead, he watched as Jim sat at his side, leaned down, and then gently kissed him.


	26. The First 'I Love You'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor James O'Murtagh and William talk about what happened in Jim's office and a week later Jim goes to speak with Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapters finishes the story that was started in Day 13: Amnesia and continued in Day 19: Massage, Day 21: Kisses, and Day 23: Angst. It loses something if you haven't read those first. I hope you've enjoyed this series. At some point later, I'll put these all together in one story without the unrelated chapters in between.  
> A quick hats off to fabricdragon for the idea of Anthea as a retired 00.  
> Thank you for reading.

**The First 'I Love You'**

“Okay, you two just get to the kitchen, or, uh, even the couch, yeah, I’m good with that. The couch is good, right good,” Sebastian said while Jim and William, embraced as they were and fairly shell-shocked, barely managed to get themselves out of the car without falling to the ground. When they’d finally left Professor James O'Murtagh’s office, there had been no sign of Mycroft Holmes or his guards. 

Both Jim and William had been visibly upset and had done nothing but snuggle in the backseat of the car. They had neither discussed anything that had just happened nor even spoken at all. William was even more pale than usual and Jim had seemed to have a few episodes of trembling or shivering. Seb had decided to stop for take away at Kathmandu Kitchen and he was sure that the other two hadn’t even noticed. William seemed to be clinging desperately to Jim as though he would evaporate into thin air and Jim had a blank, shocked expression on his face. 

Sebastian helped get them into the flat then decided to assemble plates as neither seemed inclined to move from the couch. “Okay, kids, I worked, and I slaved to cook this Himalayan lamb with the Chana Masala and the Daal Jhaneko and you’re not getting dessert if you don’t eat some,” he said loudly from the kitchen. “Or if I have to feed you.”

“Sebastian, shut it,” Jim ordered from the other room. 

Sebastian smiled because there wasn’t any bite in those words. He continued unperturbed. “Feeding you would be a major pain in the arse for all parties involved. I mean really, especially since I don’t get to fuck either one or both of you in the process.”

“You don’t get to fuck either one of us no matter what,” Jim noted. He sounded a bit more like himself. “But thank you for working and slaving and making us plates. I’d like extra rice, by the way. William too. And extra sauce.”

“Way to dash a girl’s hopes, boss,” Sebastian grumbled playfully. “Maybe William will take me up on the offer. He’s much nicer than you on most days.”

“He just beat up a minor government official in my office,” Jim stated.

“It was only a couple of punches,” William mumbled desolately.

“There, there, I would have too if I weren’t the reasonable type,” Jim said and held William tightly. “I’m grateful that you came in to protect me.” William buried his face into Jim’s chest. “We’ll eat and then we’ll talk, okay?” William nodded.

*~*~*

Lunch was a somber affair. No one really spoke all that much. Sebastian eventually took the plates away and made a pot of tea which they enjoyed with some Irish shortbread from Jim’s secret stash that no one, especially William and Sebastian, was supposed to know about. They opted to watch a light scientific documentary on the challenges faced by organisms during the changing seasons. When the program finished, William turned off the television while Jim retrieved another box of shortbread and Sebastian made more tea as the supply had rapidly diminished.

“Are you ready?” Jim asked while sitting down next close to William and taking one of his husband’s hands into his own.

“Ask me?”

Jim nodded. He was worried about William and the repercussions of their interaction with Mycroft. “What happened?” Sebastian brought in the fresh pot and sat down on Jim’s other side.

William sighed and pulled Jim against him. “I was afraid he was going to take you away,” he said. “Mycroft does that. Ruthlessly. I… I would die if he hurt you.”

Jim felt as though his entire world crashed in on him and the ground beneath him simultaneously fell away. He’d never used Mycroft’s name in front of William. That meant that William remembered something. “Mycroft?” he mumbled.

“Yes,” William said and looked deeply into Jim’s eyes. “Mycroft, my brother, frequently acts like a bastard when he’s having a good day. You know him. He does that. He takes people away and hurts them without understanding the repercussions.”

Fear crept into Jim’s soul. Followed by panic. William’s memory was obviously coming back if it hadn’t returned completely. His carefully crafted fantasy was falling to pieces. Jim wasn’t ready or willing to let it go. “You… remember?”

“Most of it,” William said crisply and using a tone of voice that Jim had only ever heard Sherlock use. “The majority came back when I walked in and saw _him_. I’ve been going over it all in my head since then and there are still gaps, annoying gaps, but I’d say ninety percent of my memory has returned.” 

“Uhhh… do you two want me to leave?” Sebastian mumbled around some shortbread. “I could start working on… snack, or dinner, or uhhhh… let me think, I could go clean the kitchen. Cooking up a feast like this obviously requires a mess and I’m good with making a mess.”

“Please stay, Sebastian,” William said and turned to smile at the blond. “You’re important.” 

Sebastian clearly looked embarrassed and shook his head. “This should be between you two,” he said. “I’ll run to the store and get something, like maybe the fixings for a nice steak dinner. And potatoes. Our favorite Irishman likes his potatoes.” Jim giggled while William shook his head. Sebastian hastily made his way out of the room. The other two waited until he’d left the flat to continue. 

William turned back to Jim. “There are chunks of my memory that are still just… gone. They’re small though. I remember John’s wedding but not my speech. I remember my entire conversation with the cabbie but then I’m sitting outside with Glenn and John and what happened in between is missing.”

Jim nodded slowly. “And it came back when you saw Mycroft?”

“Yes,” William said. “It was an instantaneous flash, like lightning. They all just slammed into my mind. Rather disconcerting.”

“Mycroft does have that effect on people, I’ve been told,” Jim.

“Mycroft is a twit,” William stated emphatically. “Although I probably shouldn’t have hit him. We haven’t done that since I was four but there was absolutely, positively no way that I was going to allow him to take you, no way that I was losing you to him. Never again.”

“Sherlock…” Jim whispered in an almost frightened tone of voice. He lifted one hand and softly caressed the side of his husband’s face.

“No. William,” William stated. “It’s William. I want it to be William.” He tilted his head and smiled. “I like it when you call me William.”

“I lied to you, William,” Jim said. “You didn’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you. It was selfish of me. I lied to you and I took advantage of you.”

“You did.” William picked up a shortbread and brought it to Jim’s mouth. Jim nibbled on it. “But what is obvious; what isn’t a lie; what wasn’t taking advantage was you holding me through withdrawal. It was you holding the bucket when I threw up.” Jim looked away. He didn’t like remembering that time. William continued, “It was you cleaning me and the bed when I pissed myself. It was you comforting my panic and my drug induced hallucinations and nightmares, holding me when I woke up hoarse from screaming in terror.” He set the cookie down and then took both of Jim’s hands in his. “And it was you helping me find my way back from the abyss of drugs and helping me find a reason to keep going. It was you helping me find my way to what _I_ wanted, not what others thought I should want or have or do.”

Jim let his head fall against William’s chest. “I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he murmured. “I always have, since that brilliant boy solved my almost perfect murder.”

“It was obvious.”

“Shush. It was brilliant.”

“All of your work is,” William said. “But that’s because someone once said, you’re me.”

“That wasn’t quite it,” Jim grumbled but then tenderly kissed William’s lips.

“You’re staying?” Jim asked hesitantly and couldn’t help looking at William with wide eyes.

William nodded. “I’ve said it recently but I want to say it now, with my full cognizance,” he stated. “I love you, Jim. I don’t care about what happened before. I have a lot to apologize for in my past, and I do apologize for some of the things I did to you and the words that I said or didn’t say, but going forward, all there is, is that I love you.”

_The End_

 

**Epilogue**  
( _a week later_ )  
Jim tried not to frown all that much as Mycroft’s personal assistant was feeding him some excuse as to why the esteemed Mr. Mycroft Holmes couldn’t possibly visit with Professor James O'Murtagh. She looked at him expectantly and then eyed the door. “Tell him it’s his brother-in-law,” Jim growled. “Don’t get all I’m a retired double-oh because I already know that you are and I’m not concerned. Impressed, yes. Hire you, possibly. Intimidated, no. So, please just deliver Mycroft the message and tell him that the longer I have to wait, the more ways I’ll come up with to creatively entertain myself.”

“Of course, Mr. Moriarty,” she said crisply and turned on her heel.

“That’s Professor James O'Murtagh,” Jim said after her in a sing-song Irish voice and then chuckled as she glared at him before entering Mycroft’s office. 

A few moments later, he was ushered into Mycroft’s private office and offered a chair to sit. “Good afternoon, Professor O'Murtagh,” Mycroft said icily. “Would you care for some tea?”

“Ooooooo, tea!” Jim exclaimed as impudently as he could manage without losing decorum. “I haven’t had the chance to try _that_ in your office. Last time, you weren’t as polite.” Mycroft didn’t reply but simply got up and made tea while Jim whistled some Irish folk music. He noted that the man was moving a bit stiffly and wondered if that was still an aftereffect of his altercation with William. 

Mycroft eventually brought the tea and some chocolate iced biscuits to the desk and served Jim. “Thank you, Iceman.” He smiled when Mycroft frowned at him. He silently promised the faeries extra cream that evening if they got him through this safely.

“Do you mind if I put something stronger in mine?” Mycroft asked.

Jim smirked. “Only if you put a double in _mine_.” 

Mycroft nodded, retrieved a bottle from one of his desk drawers, and poured a little into both of their teacups. “Brandy, it’s the only proper thing to put in tea.”

“Bailey’s is good with a nice chai,” Jim teased.

Mycroft stared at him and took a deep breath. “What can I help you with, Professor O'Murtagh?” he finally grit out, obviously tired with pleasantries.

Jim sighed. He wasn’t exactly sure how Mycroft would react to his words but he was somewhat reassured by the fact that he was still actually sitting in the man’s office and had not been removed to elsewhere. “William is very sorry that he hit you,” he said quietly. Mycroft’s eyes widened for an instant but he quickly hid the surprise and nodded. Jim continued, “When he saw you, the majority of his memories returned. He was-”

“Pardon me,” Mycroft interrupted. This time he didn’t even bother to try and hide his surprise.

“All, well, most of his memories came back rather suddenly.”

“Is he all right?” Concern was etched on Mycroft’s face.

“Physically, yes, of course,” Jim said. “Mentally, he was overwhelmed and some memories weren’t quite in their right place when you saw him. A lot didn’t make sense to him at the time.”

“How is he doing now?”

“Better. The first couple of days were somewhat hard, trying to straighten it all out and figure out was missing, how to put it all back together.” Jim held up his hands to indicate helplessness. “I couldn’t assist him all that much.” 

“Of course,” Mycroft said and looked as though he wanted to continue. Instead he stirred his tea. 

“The other day, he was also worried that you were going to arrest me.”

“I wanted to.” Mycroft frowned. “I still do and I may.”

“Of course, you do, but I’m not a threat anymore,” Jim said. “Professor James O'Murtagh, he’s not a threat to _anyone_. You know that.” He also stirred his tea. “William knows that he over-reacted. I had a panic button and I activated it, perhaps too soon, when you mentioned taking me in. Both Seb and William panicked. William really is sorry and sends his apologies.”

Mycroft nodded. “If he remembers, then what is happening? I expect him to want to return to London at some point. His life is here.”

“We’re staying together,” Jim said quietly. “The wedding in Mykonos was real and he wants it to stay that way.”

“But you lied to him,” Mycroft almost growled.

“I did and I’ve clarified everything and I’ve apologized for every point,” Jim continued. “What I didn’t do is lie to you, Mycroft. I’ve always loved him. I always wanted to be an us with him. The fact that it happened now, made it succeed, I think.” He paused as he considered how to proceed. Despite intensely disliking the man, Mycroft was William’s brother; he cared deeply about William; and Jim could imagine the hell that the man had been through not knowing where his brother was or what had happened. 

“If I hadn’t been Professor James O'Murtagh, it never would have worked. To be honest, I never thought it would last more than a few days,” Jim continued. “I expected William’s memory to come back immediately or shortly after, then maybe after we got him sober. I expected that we’d have a good laugh over it and I’d send him back to London. I never thought it would last this long. I never expected our lives to mesh together so well and then… I couldn’t let go. It was the dream I’d always wanted.”

“Professor James O'Murtagh was intellectually what Sherlock has always needed,” Mycroft supplied. “I also suspect that, on some levels, you were familiar and he latched on to that. The fact that you were law-abiding and _safe_ didn’t challenge him to look beyond it.” 

Jim nodded. “Professor James O'Murtagh was a stop-gap when I first developed him. Thanks to you, admittedly, Professor James O'Murtagh had to be completely clean and out of sight. I hated you for that, by the way. It was a bit of a struggle at first but it’s turned out to be a blessing. And somehow, he became real and I liked it. I like his life. I like him and now me, by default. I’m not afraid anymore. My life is somewhat normal. I have colleagues and real friends. I don’t have to fight. I don’t have to worry every second about someone putting a bullet in me. I kept expecting to go back to some version of my old life _tomorrow_.”

Mycroft nodded and took a sip of his tea. “Tomorrow never came.”

“ _That_ tomorrow never came and, soon enough, I stopped looking for it. Now, I don’t even want it.”

Mycroft sighed and brought his hands to his face. “I’m happy that you’ve turned your life around, James,” he said. “If we never cross paths again, on a professional level, I’ll be pleased.”

“Oh, come on, you’re not bored without as worthy an adversary as _me_ in your life?” Jim said saucily. “You don’t miss me just a teensy bit?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Jim pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Mycroft. “William is performing next week at Trinity,” he said. “He’d be honored if you could make it.”

“From our last interaction, I would have imagined that he wants nothing to do with me.” Mycroft couldn’t keep the sadness and bitterness out of his voice. “Seems like you’ve won; he’s yours.”

Jim shook his head and sipped his tea. “William himself never was a game. He’s not mine, other than in a spousal sense. William is William’s. He wants to forge his own way. The drugs were an escape for what was forced on him.” Jim raised his hand to stop Mycroft from interrupting. “I know. You and I both know that you, your family, and his friends meant well. I would never argue that. I would never argue that, in your own way, you love him more than anything and did everything you could for him.”

“It wasn’t enough,” Mycroft said.

“It was,” Jim countered. “He’s brilliant in everything he does. He couldn’t have gotten there without you. And, after all this time, he’ll be okay. He’ll find his own way and he’ll shine even more. Let him. He’s not you and can’t do things exactly your way but he’ll still do them beautifully.”

Mycroft stared at him and then downed his entire cup of tea at once. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jim said. “Come to the show next week. Support him, be his brother like you have before.”

Mycroft nodded and refilled his tea cup mostly with scotch and just a touch of tea. Jim held out and waved his cup for a bit more scotch, which Mycroft added after rolling his eyes. “Why did you come here? I was coming up with ways to intercede. Kidnap you both, lock you away, work on Sherlock’s memories. Lock him away too, if need be, until something could be done.”

Jim smiled. “Because Professor James O'Murtagh understands,” he admitted and then rolled his eyes. “Because Professor James O'Murtagh is a decent sort and cares.” He made a disgusted face. “And he’s _nice_.”

“Perhaps Professor James O'Murtagh is what James Moriarty would have been if he’d had someone to care about him earlier?” Mycroft mused and then smiled genuinely when Jim glared at him. “If he’d had a big brother to look out for him…”

“Bite your tongue, Iceman,” Jim grumbled, finished his tea, and then outstretched his arm. “More scotch, please.” 

Mycroft obliged but added a little tea before topping his off with both as well. “For appearances sake,” he murmured. 

“Of course,” Jim agreed and lifted his tea cup. “Cheers?” 

Mycroft also lifted his tea cup and they carefully touched them together. “Perhaps.”


	27. Movie Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sherlock have both retired to a quiet life in the country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: minimal period typical attitudes towards women and LGBTQ. There's not a lot but it's there. Also some raunchiness.
> 
> I did not write the majority of this. I inserted the characters into the script for certain scenes from the movie _Grumpy Old Men_. I also changed a handful of words to make it work better for the Sherlock universe but did not change the rest of the wording. All credit goes to the scriptwriters. This is a fantastic movie. If you haven't seen it, do so if you get the chance. Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau at their best!

**Movie Verse**

Grumpy Old Consultants

( _Jim and Sherlock cleaning the snow off their cars_.)  
Sherlock: Did you hear about Magnussen?  
Jim: Hypothermia's a bitch. It ain't quick like a stroke.  
Sherlock: A stroke's no damn good; you could end up a vegetable! Give me a cardiac any day.  
Jim: You know what Sebastian said. Sebastian said that old Billy Wiggins was killed in a car crash. Head on collision with a freight truck. Cleared his car straight over the bridge into the Thames.  
Sherlock: Lucky bastard.  
Jim: You bet.  
Sherlock: Hey, how is he anyway?  
Jim: He's dead! Died on impact!  
Sherlock: Sebastian, moron. Sebastian!  
Jim: Oh he's fine. Real busy, but he promised to come over for Thanksgiving.  
Sherlock: Is he running for mayor?  
Jim: Make a damn fine mayor too.  
Sherlock: It's a good thing he's, he’s military. If he worked in any way like you, he'd never get on the ballot.  
Jim: Eat my shorts!

 

( _Sherlock tells Jim that Irene moved in_.)  
Sherlock: Did you hear, someone moved into the old Klickner place? A woman.  
Jim: A woman?  
Sherlock: Yeah.  
Jim: Did you mount her?  
Sherlock: Ohhh, Jim!  
Jim: Well the woman, does she have big thighs?  
Sherlock: No!  
Jim: No?! Then what's the problem? If I was a tall fella like you, I'd be mounting every man and woman in London. (Grabs the six pack of beer out of his Sherlock's hands). Keep the change!

 

( _Jim and Sherlock asking Greg about his visit to Molly_.)  
Sherlock: Your old pal failed you, huh Greg?  
Jim: Ohhhh, couldn't rise to the occasion?  
Sherlock: Yes, the spirit was willing...  
Jim: Yeah, but the flesh was, uh....  
Sherlock: Weak! Weak!

 

( _Sherlock is worried about having safe sex_.)  
Sherlock (to Jim, who just locked his door): I thought you said...  
Jim: I said it's time for bed.  
Sherlock: Hold on, I'm... I'm not prepared. See, these days, they say you have to do... safe sex.  
Jim: Sherlock, when was the last time you made love?  
Sherlock: October 4th... 2003.  
Jim: Oh, I think we're safe...

 

( _Mycroft and Jim speak while Sherlock is in the hospital. Jim has just used his tools and wood to barricade the doors shut_.]  
Jim: Dirty rat, I'll show him, picking on people.  
Mycroft: Beautiful day, Mr. Moriarty.  
Jim: Hey, Mycroft! Why don't you do the world a favor and take your lower lip and pull it over your head and swallow?"

 

( _Mycroft and Jim speak_.)  
Jim: You mean the low-life, ass-wipe, egg-sucker Sherlock?  
Mycroft: Have you seen my brother?  
Jim: The man's crazy. Loco. Always hanging out around those kinky strip bars. You know, the ones where the men take their clothes off. That's of course if he's taken his drugs.  
Mycroft: Drugs again?  
Jim: Yes, without it he could be anywhere. Wandering around talking to the trees. I'm telling you the man's a menace, he's always drinking, starting fights.

 

( _Jim and Sherlock watching Greg visit Molly_.)  
Jim: Looks like Greg's going to enter the holy of all holies, "Coitus Uninterruptus".  
Jim: Looks like Greg's slipping her the old salami!  
Sherlock: Oh Jesus, Jim.  
Jim: Looks like Greg's taking the skin boat to tuna town!  
Jim: Looks like Greg's going put the hot dog in the bun!  
Jim: Looks like Greg's going for a ride on the wild baloney pony!  
Jim: Looks like Greg's a tom cat on the prowl - meow!  
Jim: Looks like Greg's taking the ol' log to the beaver!  
Jim: Looks like Greg's gonna bury his boner!  
Jim: Looks like Greg's taking ol' One-Eye to the optometrist!


	28. OT3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock isn’t happy with the holiday season and visits Sebastian and Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW: BDSM, explicit, prior consent has been given, PWP- we don't need no stinkin' plot.**  
>  Completely different universe from the other stories and fairly fast-paced.
> 
> Enjoy. Thank you for reading.

**OT3**

After a moment’s glare, Sherlock walked silently past the doorman of one of the rather upscale apartment buildings in London. The man nodded professionally. Divorced. Wife took him to the cleaners. Supporting two children, both in uni, and two elderly parents. Moriarty probably paid him more than expected and thereby secured his loyalty. Sherlock decided to keep his discontent to himself instead of pointing out several obvious solutions to the man’s dilemmas. He shook his head and pressed the button for the elevator. 

It was New Year’s Eve, one of the nights of the year that he hated the most, and since he had nothing pending, he’d decided to visit Jim and Sebastian to release some of his frustrations. New Year’s was always difficult for him. There were too many memories and not enough work to distract him. Even Mycroft had had no cases for him that day and had suggested that he relax. He’d contemplated asking Jim to do _something_ to Mycroft, which he could then solve later.

Molly was visiting family members in Ireland. Sherlock knew he wasn’t invited to use the lab when she wasn’t there. He could easily break in but without cases, he had nothing to research. He’d finally decided to call Jim and arranged a playdate with the two of them. When he reached the seventeenth floor, Sherlock took a deep breath, lowered his head, and knocked on apartment seventeen eleven. 

“Happy New Year’s, Sherlock.” Jim opened the door, ushered him inside, and then took his coat and scarf, before closing the door. 

“Of course, whatever,” Sherlock grumbled in response but kept his eyes fixed to the floor. “Merry ho-ho-ho.”

“I see that you’re as cheerful as ever, Sherlock,” Sebastian said smoothly. He was seated in front of the television watching a football game. “Wrong holiday, though, pet.” He rose and sauntered into the kitchen. “Drink?” 

“I bring out the best _just for you_ ,” Sherlock retorted but followed Sebastian into the kitchen.

“I know you do,” Sebastian said while handing Sherlock a glass filled a creamy chocolatey confection. “Jim made spicy chocolate eggnog. It’s currently _virgin_ , just for _you_.” Sherlock snorted. He knew it was virgin because they never drank when they were going to play. “But he promised to put brandy in it afterward, if you’re good.”

“Always nice when Jim can be useful,” Sherlock retorted and smirked at Jim, who pretended to be upset. Sherlock took a sip and his eyes widened. “Nice. It has a little kick. At least you’ve accomplished making eggnog properly. You’ve been slacking as a consulting criminal.”

“Bored?” Jim asked.

“Exceedingly. I blame the two of you,” Sherlock complained. “Can’t you see about managing something interesting for me. No death, though.”

“Demanding, aren’t you? But I’ll try, because I adore you…” Jim said flatly but then his tone changed to more caring. “Did you eat dinner, Sherl?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. “I was too _bored_.”

Jim nodded. “Makes perfect sense.”

“Yeah, you do that too,” Sebastian said glumly. 

Jim simply smiled coyly. “We have some leftover take away. I’ll make you a plate.”

*~*~*

“Enough of these niceties. Playtime,” Sebastian growled. “Come here, pet.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips. He knew what was coming and he relished it. “No.” Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest and glared at Sebastian. Hearing Jim moving behind him, he exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. Jim pushed him roughly towards Sebastian. He stumbled but managed not to fall. Smiling coolly, Sebastian’s raised his arm and struck him. Pain flared across his face while blood rushed to his cock.

“Strip,” Sebastian ordered without any other preamble. Sherlock heard the tone and his fingers instinctually flew to his buttons. His button shirt was quickly removed and tossed in a corner. “That’s better,” Sebastian said as Sherlock pushed his jeans and boxers down and then pulled them off along with his shoes. Taking the time to get undressed seductively was a waste when they had more important things to do that evening.

Sebastian caressed the side of Sherlock’s face. “Have you been good this week?”

“No, Master, absolutely not,” Sherlock replied and closed his eyes again. “I was very bad.”

“You’re always very bad,” Jim said as he slipped a black satin blindfold over Sherlock’s eyes. “And that’s what I adore about you.”

“Tell me,” Sebastian ordered brusquely.

“I was mean to Molly before she left,” Sherlock whispered. “I told her that her family’s a bunch of stuck-up snobs.”

“What else?” Sebastian asked.

“I took all of Mycroft’s iced gingerbread biscuits and ate them while writing my blog on stereochemistry of polypeptide chain configurations.”

“Stealing anything from the Iceman is _never bad_.” Jim said as he handed Sebastian a brown leather whip.

“But we can punish him for it anyways,” Sebastian stated. 

Jim chuckled. “Sherlock likes to be punished.”

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock murmured. “I will apologize to Molly when she gets back.”

“Good,” Sebastian said as he trailed the handle of the whip under Sherlock’s neck and then around to the man’s back in a lazy spiral pattern. “What else did you do?”

Sherlock sighed. “I wasn’t nice to John, Master.”

“Anything specific?”

“No,” Sherlock replied petulantly and was rewarded by a smack on his ass from Jim. “I ordered him to make me tea every day the past week. I told him to get milk at Tesco’s even though I finished it with my experiments. I didn’t help carry any of the shopping up the stairs. I sort of left him sitting there while I pondered things a few times as well. Maybe more.”

Sebastian drew the end of the whip up Sherlock’s sides, around his neck and then down the front of his chest. “So obnoxious…” Sherlock didn’t reply. “We’ll have to do something about that.” He took a step back, released the tip of the whip, and then snapped his arm forward. 

The whip caught Sherlock’s hip and left behind a thin red mark. The pain felt good and Sherlock shivered. “Thank you, Master,” he whispered.

“Anything else you care to tell us?”

“No, Master,” Sherlock answered truthfully. He felt Sebastian move and soon felt the sting of the whip on his arse. The pain was crisp and sharp and he felt himself becoming aroused. The next blow caught his other hip followed by another one on his arse. The darkness caused by the blindfold soothed and relaxed him and made him much more receptive to the erotic quality of pain. “Thank you, Master,” he mumbled. He knew Sebastian liked acknowledgment and he strove to better Jim _at that_.

Sebastian continued to rain lashes all over his body. Sherlock was soon writhing continuously. Every strike caused an immediate burst of intense pain that seemingly dissolved into heat, desire, and something that he couldn’t exactly name. His cock hardened fully and began oozing pre-come. While the whip focused on his front, he felt two hands on his shoulders followed by the feeling of someone behind him. Jim.

Leaning his head back against Jim’s shoulder, Sherlock moaned. “Please,” he murmured. Sebastian whipped his leg hard and he winced. Jim was naked and he could feel the man’s cock pressing against his crack. He wriggled to get it in further. Jim dug his fingers in Sherlock’s hips as Sebastian lashed first one nipple then another. “Please, Jim,” he whimpered. “Take me.”

“I will,” Jim replied. As Sebastian landed a vicious strike near his cock, Sherlock felt a cool sensation at his entrance. Jim was smearing lube on the puckered skin. He arched into the touch and heard Sebastian chuckling just before two lashes in rapid succession struck his legs. Jim slid two fingers inside him and Sherlock tensed momentarily before exhaling slowly. Jim started working him open just a little. 

“Go ahead,” Sebastian said while continuing to whip Sherlock with strong deliberate strokes. Sherlock knew that he was addressing Jim and moaned with anticipation when he heard the snap of a rubber being put on. Jim pressed against him and then he felt the man’s hard cock start to enter him. He heard Sebastian set the whip down and unzip his trousers.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. Jim never prepared him all that much, but, in truth, he liked that. He liked the roughness and the raw edges of their relationship. “Bend over,” Jim instructed him. As soon as he did so, he felt the man’s fingers dig into his hips and then his cock slide into him. There was an instant of tightness and then his body gave in and adjusted to being taken. When Jim brushed against the welts on his ass, he winced.

“Like that, don’t you?” Sebastian asked in a husky voice as Jim began moving in and out rhythmically.

“Yes, Master,” Sherlock answered and then groaned as warmth and pleasure filled his body. He preferred having Jim fuck him. While Sebastian took his time, he was much larger and the experience was almost too intense, especially when Jim would find other ways to torment him at the same time. Jim was much more creative and cruel than Sebastian. Sherlock adored them both.

“Let’s put that mouth of yours to good use,” Sebastian continued. Sherlock felt Sebastian’s hands hold the sides of his face and guide his mouth downward. When his lips pressed against the wet tip of a hard cock, he licked the fluid and then opened his mouth. Sebastian thrust the entire length in but Sherlock knew how to relax. They’d done this too many times. “There you go.” 

Sherlock moaned around the shaft and then Jim shifted. Despite the blindfold, a bolt of white-hot lightning flashed across his eyes. Jim was hitting his prostate with every thrust. Sebastian began to move as well but Sherlock hardly noticed. There were some nights when all he wanted to do was surrender in this manner. Tonight was one of them and it was perfect. More and more pleasure welled in his body. He felt Sebastian grab a handful of his hair and guide him up and down his shaft. The stinging in his scalp only added to the sizzling combination of aching desire and throbbing pain.

Jim increased the pace and was now ramming into him forcefully. Sherlock could no longer identify the individual thrusts. Each sensation blended into the previous and the next one. He lost track of time. He floated in an ocean of bliss and pain, pleasure and torment. Sebastian’s commanding voice was like a crystal-clear note in a roaring symphony of sensation. “Come!” Sherlock did just that.


	29. Songfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim finds Sherlock mid-overdose and brings him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: drug use

**Songfic**

_I'd love to kill you with a kiss  
I'd like to strike you down with bliss_

Silently observing the unconscious and bound form of Sherlock Holmes, Jim sat down on the bed and slowly leaned down to softly kiss the man’s unresponsive lips. He felt Sherlock’s breath against his cheek and sighed. Slow and a bit shallow. Opioids. But still alive. Jim closed his eyes. Still alive. He’d found Sherlock outside the backdoor of a drug den. The proprietor had called him. 

 

_I'd like to tie you up in knots  
until your heart stops_

Jim and Sebastian had picked him up, given him Narcan, and brought him to this particular flat. It was more secure than others and was outfitted to hold someone for days. They’d watched him continuously until signs of improvement appeared. Jim’s hand gently caressed the ropes and glided over Sherlock’s skin. 

 

_I'd love to kill you with a glance  
I'd like to put you in a trance_

He thought back to the last time they’d been together. The rooftop. He went over every sentence they’d uttered and quashed the regrets. So many regrets. He’d wanted to say so many things, different things, and, perhaps, go in a myriad of other directions. Looking back, it seemed as though they’d both set themselves on the most calamitous path and clung to it desperately. Jim shook his head. Regrets did no one any good. There was never any going back.

 

_I'd like to drug you with my scent  
And use you in the moment_

“Why…” Jim murmured and then stared intently at the other man as though he could will a response. “We’re so alike, you and I,” he whispered, haunted by the past. Reaching to the nightstand, he picked up his glass of water. The water was cool and sweet on his lips unlike the tears he wanted to shed. He set the glass down.

 

_I'd love to kill you as you eat  
The pleasure would taste so sweet_

Jim’s fingers ghosted over Sherlock’s lips and then slid down his cheek to intertwine themselves with the raven curls. “You’re me. I want you. I’ve always wanted you. I want you so much that I can almost taste it, even as it burns me.”

 

_I'd like to open up your skin  
And wander there within_

“We could have done so much. Together, you and I…” Jim leaned down again but this time lovingly drew his tongue along Sherlock’s lips before leaving another tender kiss. He let his weight gently rest on Sherlock’s chest and caressed the man’s arms. The slow rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest was a soothing balm and something of a reassurance that perhaps there still was time.

 

_I'd love to kill you by a stream  
Where no one can hear my baby scream_

Tears filled Jim’s eyes and silently fell down his cheeks. “I survived your brother,” he continued still in a hushed tone. “And you survived Serbia.” He closed his eyes. “I should have watched you more closely. I should have made sure Mycroft was paying attention. Maybe, I should have, should have tried to love you, one more time.”

 

_And then I'd run away and be free  
The sweetest victory_

“I might have even managed to do it right, or something close to right, or not quite so wrong. Or maybe done it in a way that you would understand, that didn’t send you running away.” Jim wiped his eyes and sat back up. “I don’t think either one of us is very good at saying things all that well.”

 

_I love to watch you in your sleep  
Cause you don't have power over me_

“I used to watch you, at Baker Street.” Jim said and tilted his head contemplatively. “I had more cameras than Mycroft. I would watch you constantly. You’re beautiful. You’re brilliant. You’re everything I ever wanted. Perfection.” He sighed. 

 

_And when you're awake I'm undone  
Under your spell, in hell_

Jim shivered and pulled his sweater a little tighter around him. “Why did you throw it away? Drugs. You could have made me do anything for you and I would have, happily. I would have been your everything.” He caressed Sherlock’s side and then pulled the blanket up before tucking it in. Sherlock was cold. Two sinners shouldn’t be cold in hell.

 

Song: I'd Love To Kill You by Katie Melua


	30. Free Day #1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following breakfast at Mycroft's and the cockroach incident, Mycroft reflects while Jim and Sherlock have some fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sequel to Day 3: Drunk Shenanigans and Day 24: Irrational Fears. It loses something if you haven't read that those first.  
> This was supposed to be the last chapter of the Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge but since it took me three months to complete and I had a bit of inspiration the other night, there will be one more.  
> Thank you for reading.

**Free Day #1/2**

After putting the breakfast dishes away, Mycroft sat down and sighed. That really hadn’t gone as planned. He’d never expected either his brother or Jim to react in that manner. “It was _supposed_ to be a joke,” he muttered to himself, feeling guilty, and wondering what had caused the obvious phobia. Mycroft sank into his mind palace and analyzed. It soon became obvious. Drugs. Poverty. Living in filth. Places that should have been condemned before they even came into existence. He sighed and felt even more guilty.

The priority alert from his cell pulled him out of his mind palace. He picked up the phone and carefully reviewed the messages. A situation with MI5. Anthea had gone in as liaison. She’d also noted that she would be working on the Yangon case. He nodded and sent off a few quick texts indicating that he would be available if she needed his assistance. He then texted his brother.

I wasn’t aware of the level of your aversion/fear. I apologize. –MH

Let me make it up to you and James. –MH

Perhaps dinner at The Ledbury? –MH

There was no reply for several hours. Mycroft fretted and checked their location several times but they had apparently found and turned off all the trackers to which he had access. He sent one more.

I am truly sorry. –MH

Ten minutes later a reply appeared.

Jim here. Sherlock’s not happy with you. Thanks for including me in that despite… -SH

Are you both all right? –MH

I’m fine. I get it a bit less than Sherl. –SH

His gets tangled with drug/opioid mental/physical memories/hallucinations. –SH

Mycroft shuddered. He’d deduced that such was the case but hadn’t wanted to focus on it. Jim’s simple words made the reality that much starker.

Please reinforce how sorry I am. –MH

It was meant solely as a joke not to prey on a real fear. That was never my intent. –MH

I will. And he does know. He’s still just upset right now. –SH

Dinner? –MH

I never turn down dinner! I don’t think Sherl is up for it tonight. –SH

Tomorrow then? The Ledbury. –MH

Sure! I’ll fix it for you, Iceman. –SH

Mycroft typed out several snide or snarky replies but then deleted them all. He eventually settled for what he truly felt but refused to really admit.

Thank you. –MH

*~*~*

“I think he keeps some expensive brandy in there too,” Sherlock murmured as he and Jim casually but confidently strode down the halls of MI6 towards Mycroft’s office.

“That would be nice,” Jim said without looking up from his phone. “Very nice. I’ve almost got this. Although we shouldn’t partake tonight. I think last night you had enough for the duration of the entire month.”

“Bollocks! And you had more.”

“Yeah, but I’m Irish.” Jim looked up and smiled sweetly at Sherlock who was glaring at him. He waved the phone at him. “I’m ready.” 

Sherlock nodded and the two slipped into the nearest men’s bathroom. “Are you sure no one saw us.”

“Positive,” Jim asserted. “The cameras were on loop before the guard let us in.” He pressed the button to activate the Mycroft’s Office App #35 and then looked up at Sherlock mischievously while holding up his finger to his lips indicating silence. 

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed the finger. “I love you,” he mouthed against Jim’s lips.

A few minutes later they heard the sound of a door opening and high heels clicking on the floor followed by Anthea’s voice in the hall. “I don’t know, sir. I’m not sure.” There was a brief pause. “I’m heading there right now.” Jim and Sherlock grinned wickedly at each other. “Yes, sir, I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve assessed and determined the proper course of action.” Jim activated another app, Mycroft’s Office #17 as they heard the clicking vanish.

After a few moments, Jim’s phone beeped. “Good to go,” he said. 

Sherlock nodded and cautiously cracked open the door. Seeing no one, he pulled Jim out of the restroom and both sauntered to Mycroft’s door. While Jim covered him, he quickly picked the lock and they let themselves in. After scurrying through Anthea’s office, Sherlock picked the lock and entered Mycroft’s main office. “Oh, sweet revenge!” Sherlock declared gleefully while raising his arms upwards and spinning around in a circle.

“You know, Sherl,” Jim mused. “Just when I think I’ve come to terms with, I’ve accepted, even just fathomed, the depths of your dysfunctional relationship with your brother, you two blow that understanding right out of the water.”

“You exaggerate.”

“No, love.”

“We should fuck in his office.”

“My point.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You don’t understand. It’s Mycroft.”

“I know,” Jim grumbled then walked over to Mycroft’s stately desk. “I’m familiar with the Iceman. Oh! Look at all his pens, all nice and neat, the ones he left out, lying on his desk, ready to use, all organized by length.” Jim picked up the longest pen and shifted it down one to in between the second and third pen.

“You’re evil.” Sherlock smiled at him and then moved to Mycroft’s wall of diplomas. Jim giggled as Sherlock then pushed one corner up so that it was just barely askew. Only Mycroft would notice. “This will drive him insane.”

“Yes.” Jim smirked and then looked for something else to do. Seeing Mycroft’s computer. He woke it and then easily hacked in. “He’s sooooo predictable.”

Sherlock suggested, “We should put porn on there.” 

“Do you have any videos of us?”

Sherlock pulled out his phone. “I think I’ve only got the one at Mummy’s when she was at the Gardening Circle Club.”

“The one where we were in leather and Mummy had that lovely purple floral quilt on the bed?”

“Yes!”

“No, Mycroft would have kittens, or a coronary. We don’t want to _kill_ him.”

“The only other one I have is from last Halloween where I was dressed as Alice and you were the Queen of Hearts.”

“Damn, I looked good that night,” Jim reminisced. “But ditto.”

“Then I’ve got nothing.”

Jim sighed as he hacked into Mycroft’s email server. He eventually gained access and added himself to Mycroft’s High Security government list as KickAssConsultingCriminalShaggingYourBabyBrotherIntoTheMattress. “What else?” he asked as he exited the programs and removed all trace that he’d been there. “I’ve created what is quite possibly the world’s longest user name and it’ll scandalize your brother.”

“Good,” Sherlock nodded with approval and then indicated a drawer of Mycroft’s desk. “Bottom left drawer. Can you get in? I’ve tried to pick it several times and he’s clearly got an exceptional lock on it.”

“Oooooh, I’m on it!” Jim pulled out his lock picks and started working on the lock. “This is good but…” He smiled when he heard the telltale click. “…nothing good enough for KickAssConsultingCriminalShaggingIceman’sBabyBrotherIntoTheMattress!”

“Is that how you put yourself into his system.”

“Absolutely.”

“I love it.” Sherlock grinned. “Should have added an EveryNight to it. He’d love it.”

“Poor Mycroft. Seriously, you two…” Jim shook his head. “You know, at some point, we should consider apologizing for shagging in _his_ bed.” Sherlock glared at him. “Never mind.” He opened the drawer and laughed. “His secret stash?”

“It appears so,” Sherlock said while peering into the drawer. It contained a package of iced gingerbread cookies, a bottle of amber liquid, two glasses, and a plate containing a single large cookie. 

Jim picked that up the large cookie and sniffed it. “Pecan toffee. I want it.”

“That’s too obvious,” Sherlock said. Jim nodded and set the cookie down but removed two from the other package and handed one to his lover. Both smiled contentedly as they enjoyed the sweet confection. 

Jim eventually pulled out the bottle. “Oh, my!” he exclaimed. “Courvoisier Erte No.1. Mycroft, Mycroft, you certainly have fine taste.” He handed the bottle to Sherlock who promptly pulled off the lid and took a sip before handing it back to Jim.

“That’s good.”

Jim also took a sip and smiled. “It is rather good. Can we take it home? Pretty please.” He looked at Sherlock with his best wide-eyed innocent and sweet look. “Pretty please with whipped cream and me on top.”

“I can’t say no to that,” Sherlock stated evenly. “But it would be obvious.”

Jim’s look turned to disgust. “Can’t have that. One more.” He took another sip and then handed the bottle back to Sherlock who took another sip. They then returned the bottle to the drawer, made sure everything was as it had been, locked everything, and exited the office.

“Where to?” Sherlock asked.

“Do you have any cases?”

“No, you?”

“Not that I want to work on,” Jim grumbled. “I have a couple of art theft projects and a bank job to organize but they can wait until tomorrow. What do you want to do?”

“Something spectacular.”

“Of course.”

“Shall we revisit the crown jewels.”

“You need to see me in a crown.”

“I need to fuck you in a crown…”


	31. Day 31: Fey Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone Sherlock knows is dying. Sherlock and Mycroft work together to solve the case before it's their turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last story for the challenge. It ended up being over twenty pages long so I'm going to post it in parts over several days.
> 
> ***TW: major character death, drug use, and attempted suicide but it is resolved in later chapters and there WILL be a happy ending.***

Day 31: Free Day #2/2

Sherlock sighed as he sank down in a corner of his bedroom and set the syringes down next to him. It was too much. He couldn’t handle one more funeral. He couldn’t say goodbye to one more person. He and Mycroft had been frantically trying to unravel the mystery of all the deaths, murders, in their estimation, before the next one, before it would be their turn.

Mycroft had been convinced that they were in the queue of a serial killer, an insane “fan” of his little brother. Sherlock hadn’t been completely convinced. After the first few, he’d suspected that the deaths were somehow related to Moriarty and he was being forced, cruelly and sadistically, to the suicide that he’d avoided nearly four years ago.

John had been the first. November 20th, three years to the day of Moriarty’s death on the rooftop of St. Barts. His body had been found there. Single bullet to the head just like Moriarty. A Beretta 92FS was found lying next to him. Just like Moriarty. It was staged to look like a suicide. Mycroft had forced the police to treat it as a homicide but they hadn’t gotten far. In actuality, they hadn’t gotten anywhere despite the reports that were provided to both Holmes.

Mary was next, another gunshot wound, December 20th. Molly had given him the details. The bullet had struck Mary one and a half centimeters to right of the midline and four centimeters below the nipple line, just below the seventh rib, penetrating the upper part of her liver. Sherlock had been horrified. She’d been shot in precisely the same place where she’d shot him. Mary had bled out before anyone found her. 

Greg Lestrade had died January 20th, a drugs bust gone bad. That loss had hurt Sherlock on a deeper level. Lestrade had meant and been so many things to Sherlock. It had been like losing a father. With this death, both he and Mycroft had been convinced that the target was Sherlock and he was being made to suffer before the killer came after him. It was the first time that Sherlock had considered suicide. It wasn’t as strong as his desire to solve the case and avenge his friends though.

Mrs. Hudson followed on February 20th, electrocuted while vacuuming Sherlock’s apartment as a favor because he was grieving. It was snowing that day and she’d just finished making tea and gingerbread scones for him. Sherlock had been in his bedroom and heard it. He’d been unable to save her. Mycroft had tried to dismiss this one as an accident but Sherlock sensed it wasn’t.

Irene was murdered on March 20th. They found her body, dressed in leather, the wrist loop of her riding crop intertwined in her fingers, hanging from a chain on a crossbeam in one of her rooms. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had been sickened and almost fainted at the sight. He’d refused to even read the autopsy report and left Mycroft to handle it and the subsequent investigation.

The next three were less terrifying on a personal level for Sherlock but each one increased his sense of foreboding and the urgency with which he and Mycroft tried to solve the cases. Sally Donovan was killed during a bank robbery on April 20th. Philip Anderson committed suicide on May 20th by jumping off the rooftop of St. Bart’s. Sherlock and Mycroft left nothing unturned trying to find hints that it was a homicide to no avail. By now Sherlock knew that someone or some group was systematically destroying everyone that had crossed his path within the past few years. Janine Hawkins died June 20th when she was caught in a swarming of her bees.

Anthea died on July 20th. She’d been strangled and her body left in the back seat of a government vehicle frequently used by Mycroft, who had no apparent alibi except activity on his home computer, which could easily have been programmed remotely. Sherlock refused to even consider that his brother was somehow complicit but Mycroft was relieved of his duties until the investigation was completed. Both brothers redoubled their efforts in the hope of preventing further deaths and bringing the murderer or murderers to justice. 

The deaths didn’t stop. On the evening of August 20th Father was killed by his mistress before she turned the gun on herself. It was ruled a murder/suicide. Grief stricken and horrified, Mycroft and Sherlock refused to believe that explanation and insisted that Mummy move into Mycroft’s high security government housing. The next few weeks were a whirlwind of increasing security and frantic analysis of every miniscule lead and connection that they could find. 

The brothers didn’t leave Mycroft’s house on September 20th. They kept all the alarms on, refused any visitors or communications, and watched all the security feeds from around the house. It had not been enough. Mummy fell from the top of the stairs and the impact fractured her skull so severely that they didn’t bother to call for the paramedics.

Horrified and numb, Sherlock and Mycroft had buried their mother next to their father and then resumed working on the case. The sense of urgency was gone, replaced by a sense of inevitable doom. When not working on the case, Sherlock isolated himself in his room at Baker Street and stared out of the window of his dark room. Mycroft turned to drinking more and, during the day, hid the evidence of that and of the tears he shed at night. Sherlock knew.

Oddly enough they weren’t suspects in their mother’s death and Mycroft was soon cleared of all suspicion in Anthea’s death. He returned to work at the beginning of October but only went through the motions. Sherlock found himself getting closer to his brother in a way that was reminiscent of when they had been children but yet had the profundity of decades of shared experiences.

MI6 security found Mycroft’s body the morning of October 21st. He’d been extensively tortured and then electrocuted. Despite truly not wanting or needing to know, Sherlock confirmed that the room where Mycroft had been killed was the same one in which they’d held James Moriarty prisoner almost four years before.

“I can’t,” Sherlock whispered to the silence in his room. The sound of his voice seemed to echo through the house and every part of his body even though he knew he had just barely whispered. He closed his eyes for a moment and thoughts of Jim instantaneously filled his mind. Emotion, desire, longing and despair tried to push their way into his heart but he resolutely kept them at bay. Jim had threatened John and that had justified his asking Mycroft to interfere and, from that moment, everything had started disintegrating.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock sighed and finally admitted something he hadn’t wanted to for a long time. “I shouldn’t have…” he said. He knew that he and Jim had been flirting, their version of flirting, and involving Mycroft had been a mistake. Not paying attention to what Mycroft was doing had been a mistake. Running away from Jim had been a mistake.

Sherlock pulled up his sleeves and tied the tourniquet above his elbow. He tied another above the other elbow and then another above his ankle. Tears started slowly falling from his eyes. After Mycroft’s death, he’d wandered the streets of London unable to think. He couldn’t focus on the case and had no more will to do so. He’d left the details of the funeral to the nameless government officials that had worked with Mycroft and just lost himself to oblivion in the city that he loved. 

The only clarity he found was the drive to not be the next victim. He wasn’t going to mysteriously die at the hands of a serial killer on the exact same date that James Moriarty had perished four years ago. He was going to go on his own terms. After removing the cap from the first syringe, he slid the needle into his vein and pushed in the liquid as fast as he could. It burned but he didn’t care. It would just be for a few minutes. He pulled out the needle, applied pressure for a few seconds, then gave himself the second needle in the other arm. He could feel the effects of the first and knew he had to work quickly to get the last one in his leg. Pushing the last plunger was a struggle. Maybe he hadn’t needed the larger doses to get the job done… 

Sherlock felt his body slide to the floor and his eyes closed. He tried to imagine Jim cuddled next to him. Did Jim even cuddle? It didn’t seem like a very Moriarty thing to do but Sherlock could picture it. As darkness closed in, his mind and heart called out to Jim.

“Well. Here we are again. You and me, Sherlock. And another problem,” Jim’s voice rang out in Sherlock’s mind. He opened his eyes and he was on the rooftop. How had that happened? He looked around but saw no sign of the other man. “It’s true. “Staying Alive”. So boring, isn’t it? It’s just… staying. Or getting left behind.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Jim?! Where are you?!” he called out.

“Over hee-ere!” Jim’s sing-song voice filled Sherlock with hope and longing. Maybe he wasn’t dead. “By the edge.”

“Come here, so I can see you.”

“You never jumped, Sherlock.”

“I know. I couldn’t,” Sherlock admitted.

“Yes, yes, all your silly little friends,” Jim said. 

“Let me see you.”

“Come to the edge.”

Sherlock hesitantly made his way to the edge of the rooftop and sat down. Looking down made him dizzy. “Must be the heroin…” he mumbled more to himself. He looked downward and saw no sign of Jim but sensed that the man was there, somehow. “I don’t see you.”

“I’m here,” Jim murmured in a voice that soothed and comforted Sherlock. It felt like coming home. “Jump. I’ll catch you.” Sherlock hesitated. “I would have caught you the other time too.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you have to lose?” Jim asked. “They’re all gone and you’re dead. I’m the only one left. I’d never leave you. Just _fall_. I’ll catch you.”

Sherlock looked at the pavement so far below and closed his eyes for just a moment. He felt his body sway. Must be the heroin. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and started leaning forward over the edge. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart, hope to die,” Jim sang. 

Sherlock panicked for just an instant and tried to pull himself back but couldn’t. He started falling. “I always loved you Jim…”


	32. Day 31: Fey Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After overdosing and then jumping from the rooftop of St. Bart's , Sherlock wakes up in an unexpected place and meets a tiger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few twists and turns for Sherlock. No TW this chapter.

*~*~*

Sherlock landed on the soft green grass with a gentle thud that startled his eyes open. Overhead the sky was gray, as though it had just finished or was about to rain. He turned his head and stared at a blade of grass close to his face. An ant walked slowly up it to reach a bead of dew, mesmerizing Sherlock for a minute and causing him to wonder where he was and how he’d gotten there. He slowly sat up and ran both hands through his hair before blinking. He seemed to be in an idyllic forest grove. The scientific names of each species of grasses, wildflowers, and the remaining flora flashed across his mind and allowed him to deduce that he was somewhere in Ireland in spring.

“This doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. It was November and he should be in London and rather dead considering the amount of heroin he’d injected or the fall he’d taken, if that hadn’t been a hallucination. He scrunched his eyes shut and remembered every detail about being in his room, then somehow on the roof of St. Barts, and now he was in central Ireland. “It’s just not possible…”

The sudden roar of a tiger, far too close for comfort, startled and confused him. There weren’t supposed to be any tigers in the forests of Ireland! Sherlock barely managed to jump to his feet when an enormous tiger, over 300 kilos he estimated, crashed through the edge of the forest and into the clearing. He gasped and tried to dodge the creature but it slammed into him, both knocking the air out of his lungs and him to the ground. As he fell, he noted that the tiger had striking fiery blue eyes, that seemed to burn with intelligence. They were not the gentle blue of John’s eyes. 

Sherlock rolled to get away from the beast but felt sharp teeth and powerful jaws clamp onto his shoulder. The pain was enough to silence his mind. The tiger’s claws viciously raked his chest and dragged him onto his back. Sherlock beat his fists against the creature’s face even though he knew it was futile. There was no way he could match a tiger for strength but he was going to fight. Sherlock had accepted dying by the needle; he’d found jumping to his death off the rooftop of St. Bart’s somehow poetic; being mauled to death by a tiger was completely unsatisfactory and Sherlock felt rage course through him. 

For the first time in months, he found himself galvanized to do something and not resign himself to a seemingly inevitable death. Baring his teeth, he growled ferociously at the tiger and pushed himself off the ground while twisting into the creature. “No!” he screamed. Fury powered him and he flung the tiger away from him even though the teeth rent his shoulder.

The thought of trying to run to safety passed through his mind for only a split second. The sight of his own blood flowing down his chest and arms ignited the desire to destroy this creature that was trying to kill him Sherlock growled again and he threw himself headlong at the giant cat as it lunged at him. The impact was so forceful that both were pushed back from each other. Sherlock thought he felt some ribs crack but didn’t care. Forcing himself to move through the intense pain, he regained his footing and charged the tiger.

The tiger rose partially to its hind legs and then started laughing. Sherlock tried to parse the sound. It started out as a roar and then morphed into a very human laugh while the tiger transformed into a tall, muscular man with short blond hair and those same intense blue eyes. Sherlock paused for a moment but then decided that he wasn’t stopping. He threw himself at the man only to slam into solid muscle and have big powerful arms encircle him.

“Easy there, Holmes,” the man said with a teasing tone and the merriment clearly reached his eyes. He sounded just like every single one of Mycroft’s posh peers and that infuriated Sherlock to no end. Struggling against the hold, he tried to strike out but was gently blocked at every turn. “I can keep this up for as long as you want. Although I’d be horribly remiss if I didn’t point out that you’re still bleeding and you’ll eventually wear yourself out.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock snarled.

The man’s gaze momentarily went to Sherlock’s wounds and then back to Sherlock’s face. “If you actually die _here_ , it doesn’t go too well for you, considering you’re not from here.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he tried to understand the meaning of those words but his fury didn’t diminish. “What are you talking about?” he asked trying to keep rage out of his voice but failing rather spectacularly at it. “This isn’t real. It’s a drug induced nightmare. I’m at 221B close to dead, high as a kite, soon-to- _be_ dead.” The man shook his head and kept smiling in that infuriatingly good-natured way. “Who the hell are you?”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran, but I was dishonorably discharged,” the man replied and smiled broadly. “You never saw me before.”

Data fell into place in Sherlock’s mind. “You’re Jim’s sniper.” Sherlock tried to break free but the man was as solid as a mountain.

“Sniper, bodyguard, second-in-command, sounding board, best friend, punching bag, occasional lover and fuck-toy,” Sebastian stated pleasantly. Sherlock growled at that last one. “Don’t growl at me. I can take you out right now and you’ll never see him again. I may do that anyways and you’ll end up a weed in Titania’s garden.”

“Where are we? Who the hell is Titania? Why are you here?” Sherlock asked in succession and then added, “Are you dead too?”

“No, I’m not dead. I’m half-fey. I can jump in and out between the physical world and the Feywilde.” 

“What in the bloody and everlasting hell does that mean?”

Sebastian carefully lowered his arms but remained alert for any sudden moves. He eyed Sherlock pensively. “I’m a chimera, the fusion of a human and a faerie. It’s a complicated and tedious story and not worth relating. I came here to keep you away from Jim. You hurt him enough before. I don’t know why you’re here now or how you got here but you don’t deserve to be here and you don’t deserve Jim.”

Sherlock stared and then shook his head. He wanted to ask more questions but his mind was refusing all deductions except that somehow, the man wasn’t lying. “Jim asked me to jump; said we’d be together forever. I jumped.”

“Yeah, about time you jumped. Took you long enough already,” Sebastian said dryly. “Little too little. Little too late.”

Suddenly a lot more became clear to Sherlock. “You killed them all.” He looked around for any weapon that he could use. “One by one, you bastard.”

Sebastian grinned wryly. “Not all of them.”

“Just to get me to jump.”

“Finish the job. I didn’t think Jim would show up and pull you here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know all the details,” Sebastian said. “I do know that Jim’s mum was right pissed off at you. And so was I, after what you did.”

“Explain this,” Sherlock said tersely.

“I have no reason to. I’m here to kill you. Jim might get mad but he’ll eventually forgive me.”

“Please,” Sherlock grit out. He was starting to feel weak but refused to ask for quarter from this man.

Sebastian shrugged. “Jim always said you two were engaged, promised to each other at birth.” He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t even pretend to understand it all. The fey are weird. They play by their own set of rules and half the time, the rules only makes sense to them. I’ve tried to understand them but, every time I think I get it, they decide to change the rules, and I have to figure it all out again. But it all makes sense to them.”

“Are you one of them?” Sherlock asked incredulously although he was beginning to wonder why the drugs hadn’t killed him yet and this hallucination not only was continuing but also felt very real. “You said half-fey. What is that?”

“No, I’m not really one of them,” Sebastian answered. “And I suppose you won’t let it rest until I tell you.” Sherlock nodded. “Fey is another word for faeries but you probably knew that. I’m the human half of a changeling.”

“That makes no sense.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Do you even know what a changeling is, Holmes?”

“I know what people believe they are,” Sherlock said dryly. “It’s a creature found in folklore. A changeling was believed to be a faerie child that had been left by the faeries in place of a human child. The human child might be taken due to one of many factors such as part of an agreement, to act as a servant, for the ability of humans to love, or out of sheer malice. Most often it’s thought to be an equal exchange, a child for a child. Protective charms were thought to ward the faeries off but, really, it’s all nonsense and rubbish.”

Sebastian laughed at Sherlock’s disdainful attitude and eyed the bleeding cuts pointedly. “It’s not rubbish. I was a human baby taken at birth. I don’t know why. My parents probably struck a deal with something to try and get more than their fair share in the world and traded me off.”

“Your father always seemed rather filled with himself or avarice on many levels.”

“Yeah, bastard, but I fixed them. I was raised here, while some monstrous faerie lived my life. I was kept no better than a slave, until I got sick of it. I’d made a few friends here, Jim especially. I learned their tricks and started killing them. Eventually Jim’s mum got wind of it and was sort of furious but more entertained by the situation so instead of killing me she sent me back to the physical world. She said I could have my life back if I killed the thing that was in my place.” He laughed cruelly. “I not only killed it but absorbed it so, now, I’m sort of both, human and fey, and neither. I like to hunt both.”

“I see…” Sherlock murmured and then felt himself start to fall. Sebastian quickly caught him. “Can you stop me from bleeding out?”

“No. I won’t save you. I won’t let you hurt Jim again”

Sherlock was silent for a moment as he tried to process all of the new information. Sebastian’s arms felt safe even if he knew they were the arms of a killer. There was no room for faeries, myths, magical creatures or anything of that ilk being real in his logical mind but, yet, so many things didn’t make sense otherwise. Sebastian just watched him. “Why are you here?”

“Like I said, to keep you away from Jim. His mum was not pleased at all that he managed to get you here. She wasn’t done playing with you.”

“Who is she and what does she want with me?”

“Don’t know, but I do know she was furious when Jim died and you didn’t.”

“Killing my friends and family was her revenge?” Sherlock asked but there was a tone of resignation in his voice. Sebastian nodded. “I never meant for him to die.”

“You had your brother torture him,” Sebastian countered coldly. “That’s when he decided he didn’t want to play anymore and that it was time to go home.”

“He was taking me home with him?”

“Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t have died?” Sherlock asked quietly, still not believing any of what he was hearing even if it seemed to fit with what was around him.

“I never knew the whole plan. I guess since he pulled you here now that what he was going to do before. I bounce back and forth all the time now. It’s pretty great for getting in and out of places in the physical world.”

“I’m sure it is,” Sherlock almost growled. “But what do I do now? Where is Jim?”

“His mum forbade him from seeing you. He’s sulking and trying to figure out a way around that, I’ll reckon.”

“Tell me where he is,” Sherlock demanded. “I’ll get him out.”

“You’ll never get past his mum.”

“Don’t be a blithering dolt and just tell me.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “If you want me to help you, you could really try to extend yourself and be nice.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise I won’t help you,” Sebastian noted. “I do care for Jim and even though I’d rather rend you into a thousand pieces for what you did, I’m-”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at those words. “What I did?”

“What you had your brother do.”

Sherlock huffed. “We’re back to that. Well, Jim threatened John. And Mycroft wouldn’t do anything serious.” Sebastian arched an eyebrow. “He wouldn’t.”

“Do you even know what happened?” Sebastian asked. Sherlock shook his head. “You don’t know, do you? Your brother damn near killed him.” Sherlock shook his head more forcefully. “Yeah, you didn’t see it, did you? You weren’t there putting him back together. You didn’t hold him in your arms when he sobbed because he didn’t know why you would allow this.”

“He threatened John,” Sherlock repeated numbly. It was the only thought he could hold on to. He had no idea what Mycroft had done but he knew things had been different afterwards. Sebastian stared at him pointedly and guilt overwhelmed Sherlock. “I didn’t know. I trusted Mycroft to do the right thing.” 

“Didn’t work out all that well for you, did it?”

Sherlock lowered his head and then shook it slowly against Sebastian’s chest.. “I don’t understand the rules here? I should be dead, and yet, here I am talking to you.”

“And bleeding out.”

“Yes, thank you, and that too,” Sherlock said a bit acerbically but then sighed. “What can I do? What do I need to do to fix this?”

Sebastian shrugged. “I don’t understand them all that much more but I suppose you could try seeing if Jim’s mum will let you talk to him or forgive you enough to not turn you into something’s lunch. Jim had an idea. I mean, the man always had _too many_ ideas, you know, but he had an idea about how you were going to get your happily ever after and all that joyful bollocks.”

Sherlock snorted. “Point the way.” 

“If you hurt him, I’ll see that you end up worse than dead,” Sebastian indicated the direction from which he’d crashed through the woods. 

Sherlock nodded. “Lovely.”

“Yeah, good luck with his mum. Maybe I’ll see if I can get you to Jim if she turns you into an gerbil or an otter.” 

Sherlock turned and staggered out of Sebastian’s arms and in the direction the other man had pointed out. Sebastian didn’t follow him and Sherlock didn’t care. He felt weak and all the wounds hurt. It didn’t matter. Sherlock forced himself to keep walking, and thinking. There had to be an answer and he would find it. The pointlessness of all the deaths, each and every death, stung as much as every laceration and it all pained his soul. There were so many faults and so much blame to be tossed about and nowhere along the line had any of the participants stopped and reassessed, or tried a different and less violent, less aggressive approach.


	33. Day 31: Fey Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally meets Jim's mum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. It's a pivotal chapter and I wanted to get the details just right. The whole story is up to 25 pages with the new edits. I fail at drabbles. I also came up with a slightly better story title. Enjoy!

*~*~*

At some point, the ever-changing landscape of the forest started to blur. Sherlock was in so much pain that he could no longer focus on where he was, how the forest composition shifted and changed, or any other thoughts for more than a few seconds before they evaporated into nothingness. He knew that he was no longer walking straight and that his path could not possibly still be in the direction that Sebastian had indicated. Sherlock lost all cognizance of the passage of time and eventually fell at the base of an old large gnarled tree.

Sleep wouldn’t come even though it seemed to be dusk and Sherlock felt as though he were on the edge of death. Every sound of the forest reverberated in his ears and in his mind. He again found himself staring at blades of grass and absentmindedly decided that was redundant so he forced himself to roll so he was staring at the bark. The pattern seemed to swirl and dance to an imaginary rhythm that made him dizzy. Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily. It felt as though the tree were both laughing at him and comforting him at the same time.

“You’re bleeding on the grass,” a deep rich melodious female voice stated. Sherlock wondered why he hadn’t heard her approach. “That’s rather impolite.” Opening his eyes, he once again forced himself to roll over. Looking up, he saw the most striking and regal creature... woman, monster, queen, he couldn’t decide, that he’d ever laid eyes upon. She had fathomless black eyes with golden highlights, an elfin face, pointed ears, enormous demonic horns, flowing ebony hair, and blood red lips that were quirked up in a sneer that was both familiar and instantly recognizable. She wore a luxurious cloak of raven feathers over a shimmering black dress and an iron crown that bore the phases of the moon and was set with onyx, jasper, and black opals. In her hand she held an apple, which, after staring at Sherlock for a moment, she brought to her lips and took a bite.

A myriad of questions followed all his deductions and Sherlock was grateful that, at least, his mind was still somewhat functional. Not sure of where to begin, he eventually settled on an acerbic, “Where is he?” It was more efficient and all else would be useless chatter.

The woman laughed deeply and cracked her neck in an also familiar way. Mesmerized by the movement of the tips of her horns as she did that, Sherlock shuddered at the similarities. “Why do you care?” she asked.

“I love him,” Sherlock admitted without hesitating. It was shocking how easily that came out but it felt natural.

Her eyes narrowed and the detached amused look morphed into a feral grimace for just long enough to terrify Sherlock before returning to normal. “You killed him,” she countered.

Sherlock wanted to make a thousand explanations and excuses but Sebastian’s words, that reality here was _different_ , rang through his head and he changed his mind. “I made a mistake,” he said. “I didn’t understand. I still don’t but I came to fix it, like he always did.” Even though it was painful, he chuckled at the irony of his own words. “Or to be with him, like I should have before.”

“I should make your punishment be to suffer for the rest of eternity,” the woman quipped and then took another bite of the apple. 

Sherlock watched her chew like a helpless prey watches a predator approach and forced himself to stay calm. “I don’t understand how this world works. Can you explain it to me?” 

“What do you want to know?” she asked coolly. 

“All of it,” Sherlock breathed out before he could even think about it and then wished he’d provided a more eloquent answer. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to ask. What did I miss before?”

The woman was silent, then pursed her lips while staring intently at him, seemingly considering his request. She then nodded almost imperceptibly. “I’ll start at the very beginning so that you’ll have a small chance of getting it.” She smirked again and then took another bite of the apple. 

“Your mother was not biased,” she began with a rich hypnotic voice as though she were enjoying the recollection and not merely retelling events. “She saw us and she and I became friends. She was a beautiful human child and we spent most of her childhood together, playing, causing all sorts of mischief. It was lovely. Even when she grew up, she never forgot us, leaving tokens in hidden spots for us to find, and planting gardens and flowers for us. She always made sure to have violas planted for me as they are my favorites.”

Sherlock smiled. His mother’s gardens had always seemed magical to him. He remembered his mother explaining once, when he’d been so very young and inquisitive, that she planted it just so the faeries could have a place to play. There had always been violas of every color that she could find. “She never did forget you…”

“She was feytouched, to use a phrase that you should understand, however that meant that _things_ happened at various points in her life, at important hallmarks of her life,” the woman continued. “Due to a rather messy misunderstanding, your brother was cursed by the troll king when he was born.” She sighed. “Out of love and remembrance for our friendship, and, perhaps to spite the troll king as well, I chose to mitigate the curse.” She frowned and then spat out, “I shouldn’t have. It would have solved a lot of problems.”

“Mycroft needed love,” Sherlock blurted out and felt tears well in his eyes at the thought of his brother. He wanted to ask further about the curse but felt it might not be wise to continue the discussion.

“He tortured my son,” the woman said icily and Sherlock felt the venom in those words all the way to his bones.

“It was my fault,” he said and closed his eyes. “I asked him to because I was afraid and then I didn’t… make sure he didn’t… I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t understand what was happening.”

“Your brother is still cursed and it comes out in strange ways.”

“Can you explain that to me? Can I remove the curse?”

“I’m not going to waste my breath on discussing _him_.” 

The hatred in her voice terrified Sherlock but he forced himself to speak. “Please continue, my mother. I still don’t understand.”

“You were stillborn,” the woman stated and her words caused Sherlock to shudder with fear. “Your mother begged for one more intercession. I granted it but this time with one small condition.” Her eyes seemed to burn with a fiery glow as she remembered. “Every time I intercede for a human, it ends up being a mistake.”

Sherlock shook his head trying to disagree and that it hadn’t been a mistake. “What was the price?”

“You were betrothed to my youngest, who had just been incarnated into the human world again.” 

The woman took another bite of the apple and Sherlock took a deep breath. This was how he and Jim had been bonded. “I don’t understand what you mean by incarnated.”

She rolled her eyes as though she had expected him to understand that. It again reminded him of Jim. “All my children periodically like to physically exist in the human world. They enjoy it. It relieves the boredom that sometimes strikes the fey.”

“Born as changelings?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. They always pick new and intriguing lives. Even though he’s the youngest, James is the most human of all my children. He relishes experiencing the wide breadth of the human experience.” She was silent for a moment and then sighed before continuing. “Again, out of respect for your mother, I would have allowed you some leeway in case you and James were not suited, but you were, beautifully so, until you and your brother tortured him and you _killed_ him.”

Her voice chilled Sherlock as many more pieces of his interactions with Jim fell into place. Looking back, he could see the love and adoration in Jim’s eyes and actions, in everything that had befallen them and, with his newfound understanding, the realization of what it was, not the madness he had assumed it to be, saddened him. Perhaps, Jim had been jealous of his relationship with John. Perhaps he’d seen John as a rival and not just the true friend that he had been. Or perhaps Jim had simply acted in ways that made sense for this world and aligned with the existence that he knew. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve your understanding or your forgiveness but, know it was unintentional.” She snorted with contempt. “Let me fix it.” She remained silent so Sherlock forced himself to continue no matter how difficult the next words were. “Please…” He looked into her eyes and saw so much of Jim. “It took me too long to see it but I really do love him.”

“You’ll understand why I find that so difficult to believe.”

“I know,” Sherlock murmured. “But you have to let me fix it. I’ve already lost everything. Not just Jim, but everyone that ever meant anything to me.” He paused a moment as his mind corrected that statement. “Except Molly. Why not Molly?”

“She’s feytouched,” the woman answered curtly. “She has the ability see us when we’re not in human form. She leaves treats out for us every night and she names her cats after us. Toby is a satyr, who plays the drums. We adore Molly.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t treated Molly all that well either.”

“I haven’t appreciated Molly as much as I should,” Sherlock admitted and felt a sense of longing in his heart. If he could somehow convince Jim’s mother to give him an alternative, he’d certainly do things differently. “I didn’t appreciate anyone until they all vanished, especially Jim. And now... I see how they enriched my life.” 

“Better late than not at all, I suppose. Maybe I shall turn you into a frog instead of a gnat,” she said.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. That had been quite the dangerous shift in conversation. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“You could be the frog prince,” she said and then laughed. “You’d only turn back if Jim found you and kissed you. I’d put you in a pond with a million other frogs although that brat would end up kissing them all just to spite me.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle. He could see Jim doing that. He and his mother really were quite alike. Perhaps that was the way to reach his mother. He tried to think of what Jim would do in this situation. “You could give me another chance,” he suggested. “Make it a game. Jim would like that. See if I can win. And, if I do, give me my life back. Give me Jim and my family and friends back. Give us another chance. It would be different this time.” He smiled. “And I’ll plant you a viola.”

“I have it on good authority that you _murder_ plants.” The woman smiled and it almost reached her eyes. “Your mother has been with me, by the way, so, you needn’t fret over her.”

“Hmmm… I’ll see if I can get Jim to help me plant violas,” Sherlock murmured. “And thank you for continuing to care about her.”

The woman was silent and Sherlock tried to relax. Eventually she nodded. Without speaking a word, she reached down, grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and then forcibly pulled upward so that he was awkwardly half off the ground. A brilliant fiery light emanated from her eyes. He gasped as searing pain coursed through him, centered on his wrist. Sherlock noticed that the light had burned a design into him. He had a tattoo of Celtic knotwork, with knotwork images of a magpie, a fox, and a spider around his wrist, like a bracelet.

“You have twenty-four hours, one full day, from whence you wake, to fix it,” she said in a tone that demanded acquiescence. Sherlock nodded through the new pain. “He has to state that he loves you, without you telling him anything about what has happened or what the conditions of this agreement are, no cheating by my standards. Only then can you have your life and all the aspects of it back. If you fail, then you lose everything, and I own your soul. Do you agree?”

A million questions sprang through Sherlock’s mind and he opened his mouth to speak but she let go of his wrist and he fell to the ground. “Yes,” he whispered and nodded once more. Sherlock felt himself burning, engulfed in flames, and then the ground opened underneath him. He fell. It felt as though he were plummeting through the universe and he screamed before losing consciousness.


	34. Day 31: Fey Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sets out on a mission.

*~*~*

Sherlock bolted up, eyes wide open, his heart pounding and his lungs gasping for air. He looked about frantically while trying to get his breathing under control. He was in his room at Baker Street. Something didn’t seem right though. Things weren’t where he’d last left them. Snapshots of the room flashed before his mind. Things were where they’d been years ago. He ran his hands through his hair as his mind processed all the seeming errors and discrepancies.

“Sherlock!” John said as he entered the room holding two mugs of tea. His best friend was frowning and seemed concerned. “Are you alright?” Sherlock stared at him blankly and every thought vanished from his mind. John wasn’t dead. “I made tea.”

Sherlock blindly reached for one of the mugs and forced himself to focus. He knew he needed more data to figure out what had happened. “Thank you. What happened?”

“You, uhhhh,” John muttered and then eyed the nightstand. “Yeah, you, uhhh, _used_. Quite a bit.” He exhaled forcefully. “Actually, you used a _lot_ , Sherlock, after you promised me you wouldn’t. You’ve been out for hours.”

Sherlock turned his head, saw the needle, and tried to make sense of what John had just said compared to what he knew had happened. He was supposed to be dead. John had supposedly been dead for a year. All his friends and family were supposed to be dead. Turning back to John, he opened his mouth to ask about the others but then silently closed it. John wouldn’t lie to him so this was clearly the reality of _now_. Had it all been a nightmarish hallucination?

Sherlock shook his head and took a sip of tea. What was right? He distinctly remembered that he only had twenty-four hours to get Jim Moriarty to say that he loved him and he had no idea where Moriarty was. The bargain with Jim’s mother had to have happened. It seemed so real. Sherlock turned inwards and saw the faerie queen once more. “Twenty-fours to fix it,” she said in his mind and laughed but then her voice turned ominous. “Or you’re mine.” He silently nodded with understanding even though he still felt rather disoriented.

Taking another sip of his tea, Sherlock sighed. “Thank you, John.”

“You said that already,” John noted. “Seriously, Sherlock, are you alright? You were out for quite a while and then you were talking, saying things that didn’t make sense. I almost brought you to the hospital but Mycroft said to just keep an eye on you and call him if necessary. Still not convinced about that one. Do you need to go to the clinic? Do you want me to get you something?” He stopped to take a breath before adding, “And we need to talk about the drugs.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Sherlock said and waved his hand dismissively. He needed to ground himself and figure it all out. “What was the last case we were working on? I need to review a few things”

“I’m worried about you, Sherlock,” John said. 

“What was our last case?”

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Fine. We just got back from Dartmoor. You know, Henry Knight, the hound. You promised me no more drugs.”

“Yes, yes, the hound, and the blue bunny, of course, thank you, John,” Sherlock said. Time to distract John so that he could think. The reality he knew to have happened still felt so very real. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you to work on dinner? I’m feeling a bit peckish.”

“No more drugs, please” John insisted. “It sounded like you were having really bad hallucinations. You scared me. I’m serious, no more, right?”

“They help me think but as soon as I’ve saved us all, of course, I won’t need the drugs anymore. I won’t need anything.”

John shook his head and his expression bespoke disbelief. “I’ll be in the kitchen then.”

“Yes, dinner,” Sherlock said and then closed his eyes. Baskerville. Henry Knight. That meant that Irene had already been dealt with and the rooftop was far enough away. Good. If the situation needed to be fixed, and it did regardless of which reality was real, having to fix the situation on the rooftop would have been difficult at best if not nearly impossible. Jim was still alive, not on a crash course with death, and Sherlock had time to prevent or remedy Mycroft’s damage. Mycroft. Sherlock picked up his phone from his nightstand and glared at the needle while texting his brother. He didn’t remember using at this point in time, the first time around.

Where is Moriarty? -SH

Hello, Sherlock. Are you feeling a bit better? -MH

Piss off. Where is Moriarty? -SH

Glad to see you’re back to your usual charming self. -MH

John mentioned that he was *concerned* this afternoon. -MH

I’m fine. Huge case. For the last time, where is Moriarty? -SH

Still with us, same building, being a bit uncooperative. -MH

I need to discuss with you what we can disclose. -MH

Let him go. -SH

Whatever for? -MH

Let him go NOW. -SH

No. -MH

I repeat, Mycroft, I want him released immediately. -SH

The government needs information regarding things that don’t concern you. -MH

This is a matter of life and death. -SH

This is a matter of national security. -MH

Can you release him to me? -SH

No. We can discuss it tomorrow at tea. -MH

Don’t be daft! I need him released NOW. To me. It’ll be fine. Trust me. -SH

Meeting now. Call you tonight. We also need to discuss your drug use. -MH

Sherlock glared at the last message and then tossed his phone away to the other end of the bed. At least he knew where Moriarty was and that was a start. He turned and looked at the clock. It was after six. After the meeting, Mycroft would be going home, but Sherlock didn’t want to waste that much time. The second shift was probably working and Jim would be resting after the day’s _questioning_. Perfect. Well, not exactly perfect, but workable. He strode into the kitchen.

Holding a package of cheese, John smiled. “You look much better, Sherlock, a rather impressive recovery,” he said. “I’m about to make ham and cheese panini.”

“I’m heading out,” Sherlock said and then eyed the ingredients John had laid out on the now miraculously clean table. Absentmindedly he wondered which experiment he’d been running at this time that John had probably destroyed while cleaning the table. “I’ll definitely need a sandwich when I get back.” It was probably for the best not to let his roommate know where he was going.

“Is it a case?” John asked excitedly. “Do you need me to come along? Dinner can wait.”

“Uh, no. I’m just taking on all of MI6. I’ll be home in time for a late supper.” Sherlock put on his coat and scarf as he spoke.

John stared him and then he shook his head. “Right then. Did Mycroft piss you off again?”

Sherlock grinned slyly. It was wonderful when John gave him the excuses that he needed. “Always. I’ll try not to need medical. Or send Mycroft there. See you in a bit.” With confidence he wasn’t exactly feeling, Sherlock strode out of the apartment and down the stairs. He stepped on the one particular step for good luck. “I’m going to fix this,” he muttered under his breath.

Easily dodging all the CCTV cameras, he made his way to the Tube and then to a nondescript office building that housed MI6’s most secure interrogation facility. He took a deep breath and, waving one of the identification cards he’d lifted from Mycroft, confidently strolled past the guards at the entrance. “Sir?” one of them said.

“Can we help you, Mr. Holmes?” the other one asked snidely. “Your _brother_ just left ten minutes ago.”

Cursing his luck at the guards being competent that evening, he smiled in his best imitation of Mycroft’s condescension. “Perfect and no,” he replied as he kept walking. “Since this pertains to me, I’m going to interrogate the prisoner myself.” Once through the door, he strode just a bit faster toward the elevators. He heard the guards deciding to call Mycroft. That was annoying but he was planning on working quickly. Mycroft’s badge let him into the elevator and he selected the third basement level. 

Once there, he navigated the maze toward an office that only a few in MI6 knew about. Along the way, he recognized some of the guards and smiled knowingly at them. One guard also informed him that Mycroft had already left. Sherlock simply nodded and kept going. When he reached the office, there were two guards on duty. He waved Mycroft’s identification at them in the hope that these two were more dull than sharp. “I need to see the prisoner,” he stated as formally and pompously as he could manage and then decided that had to be the closest imitation of Mycroft he’d ever done.

“Can’t do that, sir,” one guard said. “Not this prisoner and not without your brother.” 

Sighing dramatically, Sherlock glared at the man and then looked disdainfully at the other one as he prepared to launch into a tirade that none could withstand. “If you don’t…” he began but then he recognized Sebastian Moran. The tiger. The half-fey, or whatever he had called himself. “Oh, hello, Sebastian. What are you doing here?” The man stared blankly at him and Sherlock almost shivered as he remembered those fiery blue eyes.

“His name’s Tom Hisgen, not whatever you just said,” the first guard said and then sneered. “Are you high again? Your brother won’t be-” Sherlock cut him off with a solid punch to the abdomen which jolted Sebastian into action. He delivered a quick blow to the back of the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.

“The hell?” Sebastian growled looking at Sherlock incredulously and then shifted sideways to enter the door code. “How do you know who I am?”

“Met you at Jim’s place, _Tiger_. Don’t you remember? I’m not sure I forgive you for the gashes though,” Sherlock answered smugly. Sebastian had just confirmed that his memories were accurate and that this mission was of utmost importance. “Also, had a nice chat with Jim’s mum after we parted ways.” Sebastian’s eyes widened in shock and his mouth fell open as he opened the door. More confirmation. Sherlock grabbed him, pulled him inside, and kicked the door shut. “Keep up. I expect better from Jim’s second.”

“How do you know all that? How do you know about Jim’s mum?” Sebastian stammered.

Sherlock pulled him towards the elevator as his phone started ringing. “Fuck, Mycroft. I’ll explain later, Moran. We’re getting Jim. Now. Try not to shoot anyone but that’s a second priority to the three of us getting out, preferably in the appropriate number of pieces.”

“Right.” Sebastian punched in the codes to the elevator. He then entered the codes that allowed them to get to the floor below. “But… how do you know my nickname?”

Sherlock ignored him and answered the phone instead. “Hello, Mycroft, I’m busy,” he said. “Although I’m surprised I’ve got reception here.”

“The elevator is wired,” Mycroft growled. “You will cease and desist immediately, Sherlock.”

“Or what? You’ll have me shot?” Sherlock countered. “Don’t make me use force with other people, innocent people, because of your stubbornness. Because. I. Will. I wasn’t kidding, Mycroft. This is a matter of life and death. Call off your men or it will go poorly for everyone. And I’m not high.” He hung up the telephone. The elevator door opened and they quickly made their way toward Jim’s cell. “Do you know the security codes to get into Jim’s cell?”

“Uh, no,” Sebastian replied. “None of us do. Just Mr. Holmes and some of the interrogators.” 

“I’ll figure something out,” Sherlock muttered. “Or we’ll have to go to Mycroft’s house and get it out of him the hard way.”

“Sounds good to me. Bastard deserves it.” One guard stood outside the cell door. Sebastian quickly incapacitated and cuffed him. “I wasn’t kidding though. No one but your brother has the key. There’s no way in without him.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock scoffed. “I’m doing this the easy way.” He pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket and pried off the plate of the security panel to reveal the electronics.

Sebastian eyed Sherlock warily. “Easy way, huh? Do you need a paperclip?” Sherlock didn’t answer. “Try not to blow us up, okay?”

Sherlock sighed. “Try not to be an imbecile, Moran. Think of me as another Jim and treat me accordingly.” Sebastian remained silent but alert in case other guards made an appearance. Sherlock started gently pulling wires apart and following them with his fingers. “Do you think I just sit around and do nothing when Mycroft drags me in here for this or that inane reason?”

“I suppose there’s worse things you could be doing,” Sebastian said flatly.

“Oh, I was drunk or high most of those times,” Sherlock said cheerfully as he pushed the screwdriver in at angle and twisted it. “It pissed Mycroft off. The trick is to get it right, now that I’m _sober_.” Sebastian rolled his eyes but then widened them for the second time that night as Sherlock pulled a few wires out and the door opened. Sherlock smirked. “You were saying, Moran?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. You’re a lunatic just like Jim but, I may have to start liking you.” Sebastian turned on the lights and both men gasped when they saw a small figure, wrapped in a thin blanket, shivering uncontrollably on a cot. “Fuck.”

“Jim,” Sherlock called out while striding into the room. He unwrapped the mostly unresponsive man just enough to verify that it truly was Jim then bundled him up again in the blanket. “Evac, Tiger.“

Sebastian smiled and then growled. “With pleasure, sir.” The sound of it momentarily brought Sherlock back to a faerie forest in Ireland and he grinned wickedly.


	35. Day 31: Fey Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the rescue, Jim and Sherlock talk.

*~*~*

Sebastian opened the door to 221B and let Sherlock, who was still carrying Jim as though he were the most precious commodity in the world, walk past. Sherlock noted that John was sitting in his chair but that the entire kitchen was completely clean and he wondered how many more experiments had been lost that evening. “I think I’m ready for a bit of a snack,” he said as walked past John toward his bedroom. “I hope you made enough for four.”

“Five,” Sebastian said, following Sherlock but then smiled at John. “Got in a good workout tonight and I’m a bit hungry, Captain.”

John’s eyes widened in shock. “Colonel?” he finally mumbled. Sebastian waved but followed Sherlock into the bedroom. “Yeah, right, you gits could have called ahead.”

Sherlock ignored him as he gently placed Jim on the bed. “Start the shower, will you?” he asked Sebastian and indicated the bathroom by tilting his head.

“Is he up for one?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “We’ll find out soon enough.” After they’d left the MI6 building, Sherlock had made sure to _borrow_ a vehicle that he knew Mycroft frequently used, he’d tried to get a sense of the extent of Jim’s injuries and all that he’d been able to elucidate was that it was fairly significant despite there probably being no permanent or lasting damage. He’d silently cursed Mycroft to each of the nine layers of the abyss for his “thoroughness” while being thankful that they’d gotten Jim out and he still had time to save them. 

After much tribulation, they managed to get Jim cleaned up and then convinced John to do a quick medical assessment. John was not amused but his conscience eventually won out. Jim drifted in and out of consciousness and wasn’t all that lucid but John determined he didn’t need emergency care, just rest and recuperation. 

They then dressed him in a pair of Sherlock’s pajamas but were unable to get him to eat. Sherlock still considered that a win and decided that Jim, despite seeming to be near death, looked utterly adorable wearing his clothes. After tucking Jim in his bed, they finally relaxed. Sherlock had expected Mycroft and a lot of MI6 agents to show up but they had been left alone, so far, No communication from his brother whatsoever.

He, Sebastian, and John ate in quiet silence. Afterward John and Sebastian settled in to watch a war movie with tea and biscuits and got caught up on what they had been doing after leaving the military. Finding himself more tired than he thought he would be, Sherlock simply curled himself around Jim.

They slept peaceably for much longer than Sherlock wanted. He had vague memories of Jim partially waking up with nightmares or fits of trembling but Sherlock held him closer and they eventually abated. He awoke, close to noon, with Jim pressed against him. The criminal’s small hands were pressed against Sherlock’s chest and his head tucked into the crook of his neck. “Jim,” he murmured. The warmth of the other man soothed him and he wanted to stay like that for eternity.

“Jim,” Sherlock repeated and gently shook the other man. 

Jim’s eyes opened and then widened as he took where he was without moving. He then groaned and pushed his face into Sherlock’s chest,

“Wake up,” Sherlock said. “We, uuuuh…” He faltered as he thought of what he could say to Jim without _cheating_. In the back of his mind he heard Jim’s mother laughing and steeled himself. He could not fail. Inspiration struck. “We’re going to be late for our wedding if you don’t get moving.”

Jim pulled back a little and stared intently up at Sherlock, who smiled half-heartedly. “Wedding?” he asked quietly. His voice sounded weak and tired. “This is certainly an interesting hallucination.” 

Sherlock nodded and widened his eyes to emphasize it. “Wedding. You’re not dreaming. We’re going to get married and Mycroft will have kittens over it.”

Jim blinked a few times. “I’m supposed to be the crazy one here, Sherlock Holmes.”

“You are,” Sherlock asserted. “But that doesn’t change the facts.”

“Facts?” Jim muttered under his breath then turned to look around again. He took a deep breath. “Why?” He arched an eyebrow. “Why am I here? In your bed? With you?” He looked at the clothes he had on. “Wearing your pajamas, no less? Last I checked I was at Mycroft’s office where he was being a teensy bit of an atrocious host.”

“He always is,” Sherlock asserted.

“No tea.”

“He’s abominably rude. Hold on.” Sherlock sat up. “John?! Are you here?” Jim’s eyes widened and he turned toward the door as well. The door soon opened and Sebastian appeared. “Is John all right?”

“Yeah, he went to Tesco’s for some more sandwich makings and milk,” Sebastian answered. “He was a bit grumpy about that, complained that you used it up on some experiment.”

“What are you doing here, Seb?” Jim asked incredulously.

Seb smiled. “I could tell you, boss, but then you’d probably kill me.”

“Moran,” Jim half-snarled and Sherlock suspected that if Jim weren’t so exhausted and injured, it would probably sound rather frightening.

“He helped me get you out,” Sherlock explained. “I was working on the back-up plan for the actual getting-you-out part but when I saw him, it was obvious that a backup plan wasn’t needed. Sebastian is very good at this sort of thing.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed. “How did you even know who Sebastian was?” Sherlock grinned mischievously. “And _why_ did you retrieve me? I need some answers.”

“I’ll leave you two to that, then,” Sebastian said drily and turned to leave.

“Can you have John make us some tea when he gets back?” Sherlock said.

“Seb knows how to make tea,” Jim mumbled as Sebastian quickly pulled the door shut in an obvious attempt to make a quick getaway.

“Can you make us some tea?!” Sherlock shouted after him but then turned to Jim. “He’s rather useful.”

“Nice, polite too,” Jim noted tired. “Now I suggest you start explaining.”

Sherlock sighed and, once again, silently wondered how much he was allowed to give away without nullifying the agreement. He also realized that it was past lunchtime which meant he had only a few hours left. “I… came to some realizations,” he began and then wrapped himself around Jim. The other man didn’t cuddle but eyed him intently. “I made a mistake.”

Jim snorted. “You never make mistakes. And you certainly never admit to them.”

“That’s not true and it’s a bit not fair,” Sherlock countered but then smirked. “It’s not _that_ frequent but it does happen on rare occasions.”

“Go on.”

“I should never have asked Mycroft to…” Sherlock paused, unsure as to how much to remind Jim of his actions.

“Interrogate me,” Jim supplied.

“Yes, intercede, but, it was…” Sherlock found himself at a loss for words. “I’ve never had a friend before. I’ve really only had Mycroft and, well…”

“That sums it all up right there,” Jim stated flatly but his lips curled into the barest hint of a smile.

“When you threatened John, I panicked,” Sherlock admitted and then took a deep breath. The rest of the words simply tumbled out. “I completely overreacted and I asked Mycroft to do something. Mycroft being Mycroft, he did what he does best and… well, I’m sure he’s never had quite the challenge like you so he…”

“Went a bit extreme.”

“Yes, and perhaps, he overreacted because he’s so ridiculously overprotective of me.” Sherlock sighed. As he was speaking, more pieces had fallen into place about what had happened the first time around. “But it wasn’t just Mycroft. I also remained ignorant, chose to remain ignorant, to what he was doing and the extent of it.”

Jim reached up and caressed the side of Sherlock’s face. “You’ve always let Mycroft take care of everything.”

“Yes, and that caused…” Sherlock stopped himself before he divulged anything more specific although he noticed that Jim has heard that and seemed perplexed. “That ruined it. The game was between you and me. It was our… I don’t know what we can call it.”

“We were dating,” Jim said calmly but then closed his eyes and seemed to want to fall asleep again. He continued in a much quieter voice, “But something doesn’t feel right, Sherl. There’s still so much that doesn’t really make sense.”

“Such as?”

“You knowing Sebastian and the way you’ve phrased your words and just subtle little things. Is Mycroft in on this?” Jim’s eyes opened and his gaze seemed to pierce through Sherlock.

“No, never. He’s going to be rather cross with me, I’m sure.”

Jim cuddled in closer to Sherlock. “And, really, how do we go from a night at the pool to hopping into bed like this? This is a bit fast for a virgin.”

“I can tell you the whole story after you’ve rested and eaten,” Sherlock suggested and hoped Jim would accept that.

“That means waiting for Johnny Boy to make it home and, if he has another argument with his girlfriend, the chip machine, it’ll be after breakfast,” Jim teased and for the first time smiled genuinely. Sherlock tensed at mention of his roommate. “I’ll leave Johnny out of it in the future, okay?”

Sherlock kissed his lips tenderly. “Thank you. That’s appreciated.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Jim explained. “Johnny’s competent. Not like Sebbie, but, maybe, better suited to you.” Sherlock nodded. “Let me think though.” He closed his eyes again and Sherlock felt his his wrist burn a little. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant but kept his arm hidden underneath the covers while making a mental note to check on it. After several minutes Jim opened his eyes again and spoke barely above a whisper. “Hmmmmm… there is definitely something amiss.” Sherlock kept himself as still as possible. “There’s been a time shift, and there’s a strange energy matrix around us.” 

Sherlock felt his chest tighten and his breath catch in his lungs. He had to distract Jim. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong,” he said slowly. “I imagine you’re still… somewhat… out of sorts after… Mycroft. Maybe that’s why things feel weird…?”

“Nooooo-ooooo…” Jim replied in a sing-song voice but then sat up and pulled Sherlock up with him. “There’s something amiss and there’s something, a lot, that you’re not telling me.” Before Sherlock could do anything, Jim kissed him passionately. Sherlock was shocked but didn’t fight it. He tried to bring up memories of how to kiss and what people liked when they were being kissed from his uni days. Eventually it came back and he returned the kiss fervently. When they pulled apart, somewhat breathless, Jim seemed puzzled.

Sherlock smiled hesitantly and hopefully. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to come up with an elaborate scheme to get Jim to say the magic three words. “That was lovely,” he murmured. 

“Of course, it was. I’m good. Very good,” Jim said, obviously still deep in thought. Sherlock noted that he was starting to sound more and more like himself. Jim brought his hand up to his mouth and then tapped his lips with his fingers before letting his hand fall back down. “But that obviously wasn’t it.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Wasn’t what? It was a very lovely kiss and I’d like more but now _you’re_ not making sense.”

“What is it?” Jim continued but then smirked. “Oh, let’s try this. I. Love. You,” he said deliberately and then laughed while falling back onto the bed. 

Sherlock felt a rush of energy buffett him like a strong gust of wind and warmth settled around his heart. Everything suddenly felt _right_ again and he shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Did you know all along?” he asked.

“No, but Mam, unlike me, is just always soooooo _predictable_.” Jim pulled Sherlock down on top of him. “It took me a while to figure it out. Mycroft is terribly efficient at what he does and I’m not functioning quite up to full speed yet.” He kissed Sherlock gently. “How horribly did things go the first time around?”

“Quite abysmally,” Sherlock answered, still not quite believing what had just happened. “We all... died.”

“How atrocious,” Jim said while wrapping his arms around Sherlock. “But you fixed it.”

“I think _you_ just fixed it.”

“Actually, you got Mam to fix it. She tries to be wicked and all that and she can be but she’s a romantic at heart and she’s always adored your family.” Jim grinned at him and Sherlock found the hints of wildness, of the fey, that he now saw clearly, to be intensely attractive. “Will you marry me, Sherlock Holmes?”

“I think I’m supposed to,” Sherlock stated. “Bargains and all.”

“That’s bollocks,” Jim countered. “Sure, there was an agreement but I would never force you to do so against your will.”

“That’s why we were dating,” Sherlock teased. Jim rolled his eyes. “How about we give this another try then? See how it goes.” He smiled. “But I think I’m fond of the idea already...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This is it. I've **finally** managed to finish the Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge. Thanks to everyone for sticking with me. I sincerely hope you've enjoyed these stories. When I get some free time, I'll put the multi-chapter stories together as separate stories.  
>  I wish you all a joyous holiday season and all the best in the new year.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
